


When You're Not Here

by raziella



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Complete, Foster Care, Gen, Good Big Brother Dean, Hunters & Hunting, Implied/Referenced Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Implied/Referenced Child Abuse, John's A+ Parenting, John's a complex character, M/M, Misunderstandings, Original Character(s), Original Female Character(s) - Freeform, POV Alternating, POV John Winchester, POV Outsider, POV Sam Winchester, Pre-Series, Pre-Slash, Religious Discussion, Sam has shitty luck, Sam-Centric, Swearing, Teenchesters, ship it as you like it, wincest if you want it to be
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-04-26
Updated: 2016-05-24
Packaged: 2018-06-04 18:05:30
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 5
Words: 37,459
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6668860
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/raziella/pseuds/raziella
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The third time Sam Winchester comes to school with bruises, Mrs. Davidson decides it's time to intervene - before it's too late.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> The story is complete but will be posted a chapter a week, feel free to wait it out if you don't like WIP :)
> 
> I'd like to thank my beautiful beta, Momo, who's a marvel. All remaining mistakes are my own.
> 
> This story deals with a young Sam and the people he interacts with. Sam POV starts in chapter two. There's not going to be any sex or smut since Sam is twelve in this story. It can be read as completely gen if you want to.

Louisville is a small town located in Boulder County in Colorado. Of the 18 831 people living there, 85% are white. The median household income is $84, 560 and 32.5% of the adults living in Louisville have a post-graduate degree. John knows this because Sam has been rattling it off like an audiofied Encyclopedia from the moment John told him where they are moving.

None of it is important, though. What is important is that it's a ten hour drive from Sioux Fall, South Dakota. If he is gone on a hunt that takes an unexpected turn, it will take Bobby Singer no more than ten hours to get to his boys. Grumbling and muttering about being irresponsible, sure, but he will come. His boys can take care of themselves for ten hours, he's made sure of that.

What's important is that 115 miles northwest of Louisville, at Grand Lake, there are signs of a kappa moving about, and John's promised to look into it.

He parks the Impala in the driveway by the house they're going to be living in for the foreseeable future. The moon is the only thing lighting it up and John makes a mental note to tell Dean to buy some lightbulbs for the busted garage lamp.

The boys have fallen asleep and Sam is snoring something horrible. In this cold shine, even squinting, John can't make out if his face is still flushed from the fever he's been running since Blue Earth, Minnesota. He cuts the engine and heads over to the door. He would have stopped, checked them into a motel so Sam could rest, but…

Making his normal sweep of the area he notices nothing more unusual than a dead rat lying in the basement. When he gets back to the car, Dean has just begun stirring awake and John puts a hand on his shoulder.

"Son, why don't you take your bag inside? I'll be right behind you with your brother."

Dean yawns and slings both his and Sam's duffel over his shoulders and heads inside. John opens the back door and clicks off Sam's seatbelt. Sam doesn't even twitch and John feels a thrill of worry run through him. He could be a threat. Sam could so easily be taken from him in an unwatched moment. He isn't worried about Dean in the same way; he has a knack of pulling through, usually with a tight grip on his brother. He swipes Sam up and marvels that he still can. He should up the muscle building exercises. No Winchester should ever be this light.

When John gets inside, he goes straight to the second floor where the bedrooms are. He makes note of which room Dean chose and puts Sam in the other one. As gently as he can he puts him down and tries to ignore the tug his heart makes when Sam clutches at his shirt, completely unconscious of course, but it is a long time since Sam showed any outward affection for his dad. He ruffles his hair, soaked in sweat, and feels his forehead. The fever seems on its way down but John decides to hold off leaving until it’s completely broken.

Sam looks like the little kid he is when he’s asleep. The venom on his tongue, the thirty two ways he can incapacitate and kill an offender and the well of information on supernatural monsters – completely quiet in the night.

Later, when he goes back to check on the boys one last time before hitting the sack, he sees that Dean has snuck into Sam’s room and wrapped himself like a shield around his little brother. Buried under the covers they’re like one big lump. You can’t tell where one ends and the other begins. Something eases in John’s chest. Even if he isn’t here, Dean will always take care of Sam.

It really is unfair that he had to uproot them, train them, teach them to hunt the demon that took their mother, his wife, his Mary… But it will only be a few years. He’s already found several solid leads. It won’t be long now until they can go back to being a family, a real one, with a home and friends.

Soon, he thinks and goes to unpack his own bag.

~*~

As a teacher in a small town like Louisville, Fiona knows most, if not all, students and respective parents, both currently in school, but also going back some thirty years. It means she has seen Mr. Green sneak the same smokes he now berates his son for, spoken to Mrs. Callaghan about the risk of unsafe sex and meeting her two children as they started school some ten years later, and tried to make geometry fun for going on three generations of bored Nelsons.

She loves her job. It’s rewarding to see kids learn new skills, but mostly it’s amazing to see them grow from scrawny youths to responsible adults. To see the occasional star shoot up and eventually leave town with a diploma and thanks streaming from their mouth. To see the mediocre ones struggle even when they don’t see the point and finally graduating with honors, getting respectable jobs and marrying. She’s a people person, she’ll admit. She can watch people walk by on the street where she sits at a café, sipping coffee and pretending to solve this week’s crosswords puzzle. For hours she’ll sit, watch their expressions and guess at their errands.

She also likes change, which is harder to come by in a town where the population doesn’t change more than from the occasional passing of someone’s grandpa or when the Johnson’s have their second. Which is why, she is quite thrilled when she gets a phone call from Principle Mathews telling her about the boy transferring to Louisville Middle School. He and his brother and father have just moved here, coming, apparently, from a lot of moving around the states. The unstructured environment he must have had is a travesty, but as she enquires about his grades Principle Mathews just chuckles. From a woman who’s known for her strategist and competitive head, it can’t be all too bad.

“Don’t worry about it, Fiona. The boy’s been performing excellently. You should be glad you’re not teaching at the high school, though”, comes the cryptic reply.

“I take it you’ve gossiped with Principle Williamson, then?”

Principle Mathews tuts. “Not so much, but I did happen to overhear that the older brother has been given extra support throughout freshman year.”

Fiona really can’t condone the almost gleeful undertones in that voice and thanks her star she never has to worry about the PR of the school, beyond getting her students to pass. She’s not ignorant about the ongoing rivalry between the schools and knows about Principle Mathew’s feud with Principle Williamson.

“That said, I need you to keep an eye on our new addition to the student body. Apparently there was some talk at the old school”, Principle Mathews goes on and from her tone Fiona can only guess at the subject of those rumors. “Unstable home environment only goes so far to explain some school absences and sudden drops in performance.”

Fiona sucks in a breath of air. “You mean-“, and her minds is filled with pictures of abusive parents, alcoholism, malnourishment and other horror shows.

“No-no, nothing so outspoken. Whispers and rumors but nothing has ever been confirmed, or even been raised as a concern. The boys seem healthy enough, dressed, fed, show up on time, the lot. It might be nothing, but when they have such a scattered education profile it’s marked as risk cases and we want to keep an eye on the situation.”

Principle Mathews has dropped all humor from her voice and now only concern lace her words. She is an intelligent woman, let it never be said otherwise, and Fiona makes a note in the margins of her calendar for the day Sam Winchester will arrive.

~*~

The kappa turns out to be a kelpie and for a while John is afraid he’s going to die. A kappa is easy; cut off the top of the head, let the fluid run out and it dies. A kelpie takes silver to the heart and when it kicks his gun out of his hand John has a moment to regret not seeing his sons again, letting his fight with Sam be the last he saw of him. When the kelpie trips, John thanks his lucky star and grabs for the gun, firing off the killing shot and scrambles to get away when the kelpie roars in rage and falls over on top of him.

He lies in the wet swamp, feeling his clothes soak through, just breathing. He needs to burn the body, pack up his stuff and make his way back to his car that’s parked a few miles back. A wound on his knee from when he fell is bleeding sluggishly. It’s a shame his medical kit is locked in the trunk and is no help at all. He wonders how late it is and looks up on the moon but he’s shit at reading the lunar cycle unless he’s estimating werewolf activity. Either way, his phone is a bust what with slowly sinking to the bottom of the surprisingly deep river. Much help that turned out to be.

He justifies lying there another three minutes before the struggle of breathing becomes too hard and gets up. He considers the trip to get to the gasoline and lighter and decides just easing the horse-like body into the swamp will be enough. Hopefully the imbruing will do the work for him. He almost takes his back out when he slowly pulls the body down the slope. Luckily, it’s a pretty steep drop or it would have been impossible.

By the time he’s done, he’s feeling lightheaded and the moon has disappeared. The trail back to the car is less a path and more a full on battle with the forest. She’s not used to letting strangers travel her floor and it feels like every other second a branch hits him in the face or he steps through what appears to be solid ground but turns into marshland. No quicksand, though, he’s got to be thankful for that.

He scratches a mosquito bite on his throat and wonders why they are awake at this hour when the sun breaks through the greenery. The light hits the dew and John is assaulted by the beauty of it. Right next to him a spider’s web, stretching the entire span between two trees, looks decorated by diamonds. He squints his eyes when the reflections become too bright. The spider in charge of the majestic web is nowhere in sight. He wonders if it’s proportionally big or if it’s just allowed to spin this large a web because there is no one here to disturb it.

His legs are starting to protest when he finally arrives at the fringe of the forest. His car, washed and shining in the morning light is a sight for sore eyes and he breathes out a contented sigh. He smells of sour water and wet, decaying horse and his clothes are covered in mud from boots to collar but he doesn’t care about that as he slides into the driver’s seat and drives away. All in a good day’s work.

~*~

It’s a grainy Monday just like any other when Fiona unlocks the classroom, letting the stream of kids in the classroom. None the less, she scans the heads for the new arrival and isn’t disappointed when she sees a boy make his way to the back of the room, dump his bag on the table closest to the window and sit down without talking to anybody. Unsociable or just shy, she muses as she starts the lesson.

“Good morning, class”, she greets them and smiles when the tired chorus echoes back at her. “We’ve got a new student here today, and I’d like you all to welcome Sam Winchester.”

Heads swivel around to catch a look at the new guy and when Sam just stares ahead with a stone-face, she feels a little bad. Being new is never fun and, going by the school records, it’s not the first time for Sam.

 “Why don’t you say a few words about yourself, Sam?” she asks, because really, the faster they get to know him the faster he’ll get friends and blend in.

Sam stands and makes the path up to the board in a few short seconds. Sam is in that phase where he’s growing quickly without leaving his muscles and fat a chance to catch up, meaning of course he’s incredibly lanky. That doesn’t appear to make a difference as he faces his crowd without blinking, feet shoulder-width apart and meets the gazes of everyone there. _No,_ she thinks, _definitely not the first time._ If he tucked the arms dangling at this sides behind his back, he could pass as a soldier at ease, she muses.

 “My name’s Sam Winchester. I’m from Kansas but me and my family’s been travelling a lot. I like reading and I’m decent at sports. It’s nice to meet you”, he says mechanically.

Fiona’s not stupid. She can hear the rehearsed words, saying just enough to get by without being asked to elaborate. She can match it up with his file that she finally received the other night. He’s been followed by praise from his teachers and every PE coach has been rejoicing at the asset Sam makes to their club teams. But then again, his file isn’t thick from praise alone. There are also the transfer papers, the letters from teachers expressing concern when Sam’s shown up tired or with missed school work and the numerous permissions slips from the father when Sam has suddenly been pulled from school.

There is very little sound coming from the class and Fiona sends them a glare; she’s taught them better than that. Eventually Jocelyn raises her hand.

“Where’d you move from? Most recently, I mean”, she asks and flushes.

“Blue Earth, Minnesota”, is the prompt reply.

“You good with football?” Victor asks, and Fiona beams. As member of the football club, being asked is a great step towards being invited, despite the late admittance. “Try-outs are over but we could use a relief kicker.”

“I won’t be staying long enough for you to have any use of me, but thanks for the-“, Sam stumbles a bit over the words. “Invite”, he finishes lamely.

“How long’re you staying, then?” Henry injects and no one can mistake the simmering hostility in his voice.

“I dunno”, Sam shrugs. “Like I said, we move around a lot, but the when and where is kinda random.”

The students look displeased with this information and Fiona understands their hesitation. It’s hard to make someone feel at home when they already have half a foot out the door.

“I’m sure it’s not going to be for a while anyway. Why don’t you give football a try?” Fiona intervenes and Sam stares at the floor like it has done him personal offense.

In his defense, Victor looks equally dismayed with the turn of events. “We practice Mondays, Wednesdays and Fridays, after school. There’s a field right behind the school, you can’t miss it.”

“Sure, thanks”, Sam grinds out and moves to go and sit down.

Fiona, figuring they boy’s suffered enough, picks up the lesson.

~*~

It’s late by the time John gets back from the bar. The air outside is chilly but he barely feels it. Between painkillers and enough alcohol to put down a horse he doesn’t feel much of anything. He fumbles with the keys, can’t figure out which one goes in the lock and curses when he drops them. The light from the crescent moon is just barely enough for him to make out the glint from the metal. His legs feel like jelly when he bends down. It’s a slow struggle to figure out which end is up and which direction to turn and he feels a deep satisfaction when he hears the clicking noise, indicating the door being unlocked.

Inside he can smell mold that’s never been taken care of. The carpet is stained in more places than he can see in the darkness and who the hell puts a wall-to-wall carpeting on a house in the country side? But he doesn’t care about that as long as the thin white lines in front of the windows and door remains unbroken. He lifts his feet comically high to make sure he doesn’t stray the salt, breaking the barrier. From the inside, the lock is easier, just twist and it’s done. Safe and sound inside he takes a minute to rest his head against the steel, just breathes. The stitches don’t hurt but he pretends they do so he can justify the control exercises he uses.

It’s October 31st and he hoped the hunt would take longer so he could have stayed busy. Instead he’s here, wasting away his time tracking a trail that has been cold since many years, stealing the childhood his sons deserve, missing out on having a family. For what? Racing around the country, butting heads with everything unnatural in the world and hoping he’ll survive this night, too. A broken laughter breaks out between his clenched teeth.

No, he doesn’t feel a thing.

Eventually he manages to lean away from the door, kicks off his boots and makes his way into the house and up the stairs. He checks in on Sam and sees the bed is empty. When he gets to Dean’s room, it’s so dark with the only working curtains that at first he thinks its’s empty, too. Then he registers the soft snuffling sound of two people breathing in their sleep. He squints over at them, waiting for his eyes to adjust and confirms Sam has snuck into Dean’s bed. He ought to have a word with him about that. Or just tell Dean to explain it to him.

They really are very close, he thinks. He doesn’t have any siblings but he can’t imagine this is how it would have been if he did. Sam is snuggled up against Dean, head tucked under his chin with only his too long hair visible above the sheets. Dean has an arm slung around him in a protective fashion and half his body is covering Sam’s.

Something painful clenches in John’s chest. Do they know? They never (ever) talk about Mary and the horrors surrounding her death. Sam is too young to remember but maybe Dean still does. Do they talk about it? Do they know why they never celebrate Halloween or do they sum it up to being too silly or morbid when they fight monsters in their everyday life?

A small whine breaks his reverie and as he looks on Sam wriggles, clearly distressed. Probably a nightmare. He considers waking him but his feet aren’t being cooperative and he wonders if it’s worth it to hear him bitch at him about getting drunk. He sways back and forth a little but then the decision is taken from him as Dean squeezes Sam’s body tighter to him. John’s pretty sure he’s not even awake, the action of taking care of Sammy is just pure nature to him after all these years. He wonders if he’s screwed them up for life, if he should try separating them, if they will hate him.

He stumbles back into his room, dropping down on the bed in a sigh of relief. The thoughts still swivel around his head when it hits the pillow. He’s thankful because they aren’t demon black or fiery red. Within moments he’s snoring.

~*~

After school Fiona makes a habit of making sure everyone makes their way to where they’re going. Most students have after-school activities and there is little to worry about; they move in clusters through the corridors to their respective clubs, be it chess club, the school paper or down to the school grounds where soccer and football practices are held, or the gym where the basketball team keeps at.

The few students that don’t have any activities usually ride their bikes home, being the small town it is. She’s therefore a bit dumbfounded when a black monstrosity of a car screeches in on the parking lot, music coming out in a muffled drumming noise, where it executes a perfect swerve as it comes to a halt before the entrance.

She searches her mind for someone who can afford both the car and the attitude but comes up with a blank. The young man who steps out is handsome in the reckless sort of way with a leather jacket and dirty blond hair. She doesn’t recognize him at all.

That is, until she sees Sam trudging over and greeting him and she realizes this must be, she scrambles for a name only mentioned once in passing, Dean, the big brother. Dean ruffles Sam’s hair and she has to hide a smile because the scowl he receives in return would have most people back away but Dean smirks self-assuredly and says something with a relaxed smile. She can’t see Sam’s face but he must say something funny because Dean’s eyes go wide for a second before he throws his head back and laughs.

Sam opens the backdoor and throws his schoolbag inside before going around the car and slinks in on the passenger side. For the brief moments the door is open the bass drumming out of the vehicle transforms into rock music.

Dean scans the area before turning around to get in and, for just a second that seems suspended in time, their eyes meet. Fiona doesn’t think she makes any kind of expression but Dean’s face shuts down. He throws another glance around the schoolyard before he jumps back in and they are off.

Fiona has no idea what any of it means but something twists in her stomach.

~*~

John decides they can stay a little while longer when he finds signs of a restless spirit in the next town over. He pretends he doesn’t hear Sam exhale in relief. It’s a pretty good location, central. He has a good reach and by now they boys are grown up enough to be left on their own a couple of days when he drives off.

He needs to get a new car, though. It’s fine when it’s just over the night, but Dean needs to be able to get around. If John calls for back-up, or if something happens to Sam and needs to be taken to hospital, or if Bobby Singer calls to have someone check out a ghoul in the next town over, or, or. John can think of a thousand scenarios that he’s been willing to ignore when it’s just one night, but with the boys getting older, he’s been taking jobs further away and the night has turned into a couple and a couple has turned into a few. It’s time.

While he spends a few days looking for ads on cars and gathering Intel on the restless spirit via the motel’s guest computer, he makes updates on the boys’ training regimen. Dean, of course, has been following the one he set up religiously, and doing everything he can to have Sam follow it, too, no doubt. When he takes them out to the outskirts of town where they can practice body combat without neighborly curiosity, though, he notices that Sam gets winded pretty fast. There has clearly been some slacking off.

“Get up, Sam!” he yells when Dean puts him face down in the ground and he doesn’t move.

A whine answers him and John wonders if he actually got hurt but then there is rustling and Sam slowly gets to his feet. Dean casts a worried glance his way and John frowns. A couple of minutes later, Sam’s on the ground again.

“Get up, Sam. Now!” He can hear Sam panting from the grass, chest expanding with heaving breaths. “Get on your feet, right this second!” he yells, starting to come over, and Sam finally crawls to his feet.

He crouches down in defensive position again and they start over. When it happens again, John is grinding his teeth. He walks over, hauls Sam up and shakes his shoulder.

“You get up, right away. You get up the second you’re down, or you’re dead. You hear me?”

Sam stares up at him, still breathing heavily, but he nods.

“A monster won’t hesitate to kill you while you’re down. If there is even an ounce of strength left in you, you get up or you die.” He waits to see if Sam is hearing him before he goes on. “Now regulate your breathing and get busy.”

“Yessir.”

They keep going but it’s clear Sam’s not really up to it and he looks over at John several times, waiting for him to call it a quits. He doesn’t. Even when Dean starts looking harassed John makes them continue.

“You can easily block that if you take half a step back and raise your arm like this”, he explains when Sam takes a punch to the kidney. Sam just pants and nods, bent over with his hands on his knees. “Are you listening to me? You move _with_ the enemy, feel their pace, match it and then exceed it. This kind of sloppy attack can get you killed.”

“Yeah”, Sam says and straightens up, “I got. Sir”.

“Then show me.”

They don’t pack up and leave until the shadows are long and their stomachs growling. At the house they wash up before heading off to the nearest fast food restaurant. His boys look exhausted and are leaning on the bar disk when getting their orders. The waitress is giving them suspicious looks and John does what he can to smile reassuringly. She only looks mildly appeased.

“You did good work today”, he tells Sam and Dean when they are seated at the table.

Dean, wolfing down his burger like a starved man, looks up with hopeful eyes. Sam stubbornly just keeps eating. He’s chosen the vegetarian option and John looks at the salad with resignation. Of course he doesn’t grow if he doesn’t eat properly. He scrubs a hand over his face, suddenly tired.

“I know I demand a lot of you. More than any other kids you meet in school, or wherever.” Sam casts an apprehensive glance at him. “And I know it seems unfair sometimes”, John waits until Sam’s finished swallowing so he can snort derisively. “But it’s because I want you to be prepared. There are monsters out there.” Dean is looking at him intensely, he knows this already, possibly wondering if John will bring new information to the table. “There’re dark things lurking in the night and you can never let your guard down. I’m not setting up your work-out schedule because I want to torture you or because I think it’s fun. It’s because I want you to have a fighting chance.”

Sam looks like he has a lot to say to that but he stuffs another piece of lettuce in his mouth and keeps quiet. John is strangely relieved.

“That said, I’m disappointed in your lack of discipline. Today was an excellent indication of how much you’ve slacked off.” Sam chews mutinously and Dean looks down, fighting to keep still under the weight of John’s heavy gaze. “I expect to see a stark improvement, starting tomorrow.”

“Yessir”, they chorus.

John casts one more disparaging look at Sam’s salad.

“And that includes a meat-based diet.”

~*~

During lunch hour Fiona usually eat in the teacher’s lounge with the other teachers. They discuss who has been late to class, the drollness of correcting glossary tests, the horror that is today’s understanding of grammar and who has started dating whom. Yes, the teachers gossip just as badly as the students, if not worse.

Today, however, Fiona didn’t bring lunch because her fridge broke down and all her groceries, including today’s clever lunchbox with codfish and potatoes, have gone bad. It’s a travesty because she uses her mother’s recipe and it is to die for. This is why she is currently lining up with the students, filling her plate with spring rolls and stir-fry while glancing around, wondering if she should sit in the dining hall or walk back to the teacher’s lounge. It’s in another building, though, and she doesn’t fancy eating lunch cold.

As she hands over enough bills to cover her charge she glances over and sees the new student, Sam Winchester, sitting by himself at an empty table in the back. She bites her lip. On one hand, eating alone is never fun and in school, she remembers from her own time, it is the ultimate indicator of being an outsider. On the other hand, being joined by one’s teacher might actually turn out to be the kiss of death in this situation. Then again (she’s running out of metaphorical hands) she never was one to ignore a problem. Determinedly she stomps over.

“Sam”, she says gently and he glances up, surprised, from his book. “Do you mind if I sit with you?”

He looks halfway to worried but nods all the same and packs away his book. She approves of his manners. It can’t be easy moving around so much but it appears his father hasn’t been neglectful in his up-bringing.

“Is anything the matter, Mrs. Davidson?”

“No, no, nothing at all. I rarely eat in the dining hall so I hope you don’t mind me using you as a bit of company.”

Sam looks doubtful for a second but drops it and takes another bite of his spring roll. She notices he’s put three sausages on his plate, as well, but has yet to touch them. It’s probably good for him to eat some more, he looks like skin and bones beneath his lumpy shirt. He isn’t wearing the school uniform, still waiting for it to arrive, she assumes. It’s tricky with sizes at his age, with how much they’re growing and everything. Still, she frowns, being the only student in casual wear doesn’t exactly pull eyes away from him.

“So what are you reading?” she asks and places her a napkin in her lap. It would be a shame to spill on this skirt, she’s had it for years.

Sam looks briefly down at the bag where he stashed the book. “It’s about myths and stuff”, he answers vaguely and she doesn’t think she’s imagining the sudden twitchiness in him.

“Oh? Are you interested in old legends, then, Sam?”

“Yeah… no, not really. Just thought it would be… fun.” His shoulders are slumped and he’s chewing like he’s counting the correct number of times. He’s definitely not smiling.

“Have you been to football practice yet?” she changes the subject smoothly. The spring roll is crunchy but she can’t detect any spices at all. Such a shame.

“Yeah, we’re mostly building muscle now, though ‘cause apparently we’re behind schedule”, Sam says and Fiona pretends she doesn’t hear when he mutters “In November”. She doesn’t really know all that much about the game but she can imagine that just doing ground work can’t be much fun.

“How about the teammates? Are they being nice? Have you talked to anyone, yet?”

“Absolutely, they’re all really cool”, Sam answers and stuffs his mouth full so he doesn’t have to elaborate. Fiona can take a hint. She can also see when someone is just feeding her lines they think she wants to hear.

“I know coming to a new school can be tough, connecting with someone, reaching out. Especially if you know you’re not going to be here all that long. But Sam, you can’t keep thinking none of it matters because you’ll be gone soon. You’ll miss out on so much.”

Sam keeps chewing and doesn’t answer. He has a faraway look on his face and Fiona suspects he might not even have heard her.

“You’re right, thank you Mrs. Davidson. I’ll think about it”, he says and gets up, about to leave. With the stretch of bending down to collect his tray, though, the material stretches and she notices a bruise around his wrist.

“Sam”, she says and something in her voice must work as a warning bell because his eyes snap to her. “What happened to your arm?”

“I had a wrestling match with my brother”, Sam says and laughs awkwardly. It sounds hollow. “He’s pretty big and doesn’t know his strength.”

“Were you on the wrestling team at your old school?” she asks and Sam takes a second to answer.

“My dad taught us. He was in the Marine and thought it was a good idea to teach us to handle ourselves in a fight.”

Fiona looks at him and Sam looks back, meeting her gaze steadily. She nods.

“All right, I’ll see you in class tomorrow, Sam. Take care of yourself.”

Children his age get bruises all the time. They live active lifestyles and it’s a sign that they’re allowed to enjoy their childhood more than anything. It’s nothing to worry about.

~*~

John is researching a potential case of a skinwalker when the boys get home from school. It’s slow going and he’s considering having a second beer when they barge through the door. He casts a precursory glance at the salt lines but the boys are careful, it’s basically instinct by now.

“Man, I’m starving”, Dean moans and goes straight to the small kitchen.

There is nothing in there but half a leftover burrito and not nearly enough to feed two growing young men. He can already hear Dean’s disappointment but he doesn’t get up. If he wasn’t here they would have to deal with the situation by themselves and by all means he is working.

Sam pulls off his shoes and looks over at him. John ignores the tingling in his spine from being looked at from behind and flips a page in the book he borrowed from the library this morning. Sam goes to sit on the couch instead, where he pulls up his homework. Dean is rummaging through the cabinets even though he must have figured out there is nothing edible in the house by now. He gives out a long sigh and goes back out.

“I’ll bring us some grub”, he says as he closes the door.

There is a few minutes of silence where Sam scratches away on some report and John gets absolutely nowhere on the research. The tension in the room is palpable. John reads through the most recent article one more time and then gives up. Sam is the master of silences. He clears his throat. Twice.

“Sam”, he says and feels rather than sees Sam tense up.

“Sir?”

“Why don’t you start on your afterschool work-out while you wait for your brother to get back?”

Sam throws a reluctant look on his schoolwork and sighs very quietly like John won’t remark on it if he’s quiet enough.

“Yessir.”

Despite being phrased like a question they both know it’s just a peace offering. It’s an order disguised as a suggestion to avoid open confrontation. Sam can pretend his life is normal, that he has a choice in this, and John can go back to working without having another screaming contest. He’s pretty sure he never had to go through these diplomatic methods with Dean. It feels profoundly unfair.

When Sam’s finally dressed and out the door, John decides to have that beer after all.

~*~

It’s a Wednesday afternoon when Fiona gets the phone call. The man’s voice that meets her is gruff and serious but unfailingly polite.

“Mrs. Davidson I presume. My son speaks very highly of you”, he says and Fiona takes a second to figure it out. “I’m sorry to call like this but Sam’s not home from school yet-“

“It’s no worries, Mr. Winchester. Sam’s probably at practice.”

“Practice?” Mr. Winchester injects, clearly nonplussed.

“Yeah, your son is on the football team. Well on his way to making the regulars if I hear correctly from the coach”, Fiona says quite happily. “I’m sure there was information on the permission slip he brought you to get signed last week…”

There is a few moments of absolute silence from the other end of the line. Then: “Yes, of course, must have slipped my mind.”

Fiona makes a humming sound. Having your son on the football team is a point of pride for most fathers, she has a hard time believing he forgot about it. She looks on the big clock on the wall. “Actually, it should be over about now. He’ll be on his way in a couple of minutes, tops”, she tells him.

“Ah, I see, thank you, ma’am but is there any way I could have you go fetch him? It’s just, something’s happened and I need to get him home as soon as possible…”

Is this how it ends, then? A phone call from his dad and then off to another town, never enough time to set down roots, always on the move. She feels bad for Sam. He hasn’t even had a chance to really get to know anyone.

“Is everything all right, Mr. Winchester?” she asks tentatively.

“Oh, there’s nothing to worry about, I just really need my boys to get back here. It’s a family matter”, Mr. Winchester explains without explaining anything.

“Yes, of course, I understand”, Fiona says and thinks she understands more than Mr. Winchester realizes. “I’ll go down to fetch him. Will his brother come and pick him up?” she inquires.

“Yeah, yeah, he’s already on his way, should be there in a few minutes”, Mr. Winchester assures her.

They take a polite farewell and Fiona mentally confirms where Sam gets his manners from, even if he’s miles away from the smooth way Mr. Winchester managed to wrap her up in a sense of security. She looks at the phone like it might provide some answers, before she bustles off to the football field.

As she suspected, the players are already gone. She speaks a couple of words with the gym teacher and coach who points her to the changing rooms. She thanks him and hurries over.

In the boys’ locker room there is steam coming out of the showers and sweat permeates the air. When she knocks there is a sudden flurry of movement but they’re all covered by towels or at least half-dressed when she steps in.

“Sorry, boys!” she calls and scans the area, trying to catch Sam.

“Mrs. Davidson”, a few answer her, shuffling around.

“I heard you’re working hard”, she chats and there is a mumbling answer. “You haven’t seen Sam, have you?” she asks when she gives up the search.

He’s not among them and for a few heart throbbing seconds she panics. If he’s gone while his father is looking for him…

“Mrs. Davidson?” Sam’s voice rise above the buzz. “What are you doing here? This is the boys’ room”, he tells her and she almost laughs at his confused expression. Then she remembers in what purpose she’s here.

“Sam, your dad called”, she tells him and then wonders what words actually came out of her mouth because his face loses all its pallor. In the steamy room where they’re still red-faced and sweating from practice it’s quite an accomplishment. “He wants you home as soon as you can be ready”, she continues.

Sam thanks her and turns around.

Fiona will forever remember the exact moment her eyes fell on his back. With only a towel wrapped around him, Sam’s skin is displayed in a way that his normal attire never allow for. His back is covered in abrasions and scars. Several areas have an unnatural green and yellow hue telling the story of week old bruises. On his right leg there are scabs running from his ankle all the way up to his knee.

She doesn’t know what kind of noise she makes but Sam seems to register it because he turns back and looks at her, meets her eyes and she sees when he understands what she’s staring at. His jaw drops from the tense clenching they’d been doing and he doesn’t say a word as he hurriedly pulls a shirt over his body. Within seconds he’s fully dressed, picks up his bag and steps around her to get out.

The other boys are staring at her. No one says anything. She doesn’t know what to tell them, what to ask. She knows football is a body-contact sport with a lot of injuries, but she also knows that damage like that doesn’t come from a game they allow 12 year olds to play.

“When you’re done changing, please come to my office”, she tells them and steps out.

She feels cold all the way into her bones.

~*~

“Get changed, we’re heading out immediately”, John tells Sam as soon as the boys arrive back at the house.

Sam throws his bag on the floor and disappears into his room. Dean, who’s already dressed and ready to go stands by the door, looking at John. He raises an eyebrow. _What?_

“Are you sure about bringing him along?” Dean asks and it’s the closest to disobedience Dean has been in years.

“He’s twelve. At that age you had two werewolves, several spirits and a black dog under your belt. He’s been mothered enough.”

Dean looks like he still has something to say but John isn’t really interested in hearing what it is.

“Go check everything’s in the car”, he tells him.

They both know there’s no need. The car’s always ready and Dean saw him earlier, before he called Sam’s school, check over the contents himself. He goes anyway. John breathes a sigh of relief. What is it about Sam that gets Dean like this? He’s a tough kid, never been squeamish or questioned John’s orders but with Sam, he’s…

He doesn’t have time to think of an appropriate word before Sam shoots out of his room. Cargo pants, combat boots, duffle over one shoulder and a rifle over the other. He got it for his twelfth birthday and hasn’t gone on a hunt without it. John almost smiles. Like this he can finally recognize a part of himself in his youngest.

“Dean’s already outside. Get going”, he says.

“Yessir.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I know Sam canonically plays soccer, not football, but this is an AU. Just roll with it ;)
> 
> Comments are golden! Also, feel free to check out my tumblr: http://whinchesters.tumblr.com/


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Once again, I thank my wonderful beta, Momo!
> 
> Warnings: there are allusions to sexual abuse (though nothing happens), a lot of explicit descriptions of blood and mentions of child abuse.

The drive to Coal Creek is silent. Sam fiddles with a knife, tracing the wooden handle and the inscriptions there that are so old they’ve turned black.

He would be upset about being pulled out of school but this is actually for a case, not just one of Dad’s crazy training things. He feels a bubbling sort of excitement low in his gut that might partially be dread.

He looks to his right where Dean is seated, having given up his place as shotgun for some reason. Dean’s staring out the window, his brow furrowed. Clearly something happened between him and Dad when he wasn’t around. Dean doesn’t defy Dad, though, not like Sam does. They don’t butt heads or disagree on things, so Sam has no idea what’s really going on.

They hit a bump in the road and Sam almost snags his finger on the sharp cutting edge. Dean’s eyes snap over to his fingers and a muscle twitches in his face.

“You shouldn’t play with that.”

It’s quite possibly the most ridiculous thing he’s ever said. When he turned nine, Dad shoved this knife into his hands and told him not to put it down for 48 hours so he would get used to having it on him, always. He isn’t playing with it. He’s handling it.

Tauntingly he drags his thumb over the edge, pretending to eye his handiwork at sharpening it, just to have Dean’s attention on him instead of whatever’s coming next. Dean glares at him and turns back to the window. Sam continues fiddling, running the blade across his covered forearms, wiping it from invisible dirt. He scrapes off some dried mud, or is it ectoplasm, from his cargos. It isn’t until he’s gently sliding the blade across his face, imitating a shaving he won’t need for a few years at least, that Dean stops pretending to not be paying attention.

“Would you cut it out?” he snarls under his breath.

“Why?” Sam challenges and feels a thrill run down his back when something flashes in Dean’s eyes.

A second later the knife is out of his hands and Dean is shoving it back into the duffle bag Sam brought. His fingers twitch in an odd delayed reaction.

“It’s not a fucking toy”, he grumbles and goes back to his viewing of the fascinating scenery.

Dad isn’t listening. His eyes are trained onto the road, his face stiff with tension.

Sam barely glances out to notice they’ve reached the outskirts of civilization and are now entering the forest. By now there will no more speed meters and just as he thinks this, Dad puts his foot down and a small swoop in Sam’s stomach indicates their velocity just went up considerably.

“What are we hunting?” he asks when no information seems to be forthcoming.

“Skinwalker gone rural”, is the curt reply.

“Why are we hunting it if it’s left the urban areas?” Sam can’t help but ask.

The air that was almost friendly a second ago becomes tense again. Sam can see the muscles under Dad’s leather jacket bunch up in displeasure.

“It’s a supernatural freak, Sam. We don’t know when it might go from your friendly dog to not so friendly wild canine in a village that happened to be close enough when it got hungry. We don’t ask those questions.”

“But-“

“That’s an order, son!”

Sam lets the silence drag a second longer before he says: “Yessir.”

He doesn’t disobey his dad, especially on the way to a hunt, but he can’t help how his blood boils under his skin when Dad lays down the law like that. He’s practically itching to argue and he figures he has managed to tame that down to an okay level. The displeased curve to his dad’s lip tells another story and no more words are spoken for another ten miles.

 

~*~

 

It happens in slow-motion.

John is lining up his shot, Dean is playing decoy and Sam is securing the perimeter. Everything is set up, playing out just like they expect to, when suddenly the dog picks up on a smell. It whips around from its confrontation with Dean who starts yelling and waving his arms to catch its attention again.

It shoots off in another direction and John makes the split decision between shooting and realigning, realizing he could hit Dean at this angle and lowers his gun. Then he sees what the dog has set its eyes on.

It’s Sam.

Sam, who has come much too close to the confrontation site, who’s dutifully guarding the area, who hasn’t noticed the dog coming at him.

“SAM!” Dean screams and he’s running towards the dog now.

John raises the gun again but there is no way, not with Dean in the way, not from this distance.

The dog is enormous, swallowing the ground in its gallop over to Sam who looks up when Dean yells. Even from where he’s standing, John can see Sam’s eyes go large. He falls into a defensive crouch and John wants him to run. _Don’t be a fool, you can’t take him, he’ll put his teeth around you and snap you in two._

In his mind’s eye, he can already see the blood, the destruction.

Sam grips his knife tight, steadies himself and launches with a warrior’s howl at the wild animal coming at him. They collide and time comes to a standstill.

John sees where the dog’s jaws clamp down on Sam’s shoulder, he sees where Sam pushes in the knife into the furry body, his other arm going around the dog’s throat, gripping around its thick neck and cutting off its air supply. The superior weight of the skinwalker pushing them both easily to the ground. He watches in horror as Sam’s body is crushed underneath the pure mass of the rabid dog. He hears something crack, he hears Sam’s roar cut off and he sees the blood.

It all plays out in seconds, it feels like years. John doesn’t take a single breath during the entire encounter. Even his heart might have stopped beating.

Dean reaches Sam, hauls the body of the skinwalker off Sam. A small part wants to berate Dean for not taking care to ensure the monster is dead. Another part completely agrees when Dean starts shaking his brother by the arm, so roughly his entire body jerks with the movement.

“Sam, answer me, damn it! Come on!” Dean cries and pulls Sam to him.

John is by their side before he knows what’s happening. He puts a silver bullet in the dog-turned-man’s chest for good measure and bends down by his sons. Gently but firmly he takes Sam out of Dean’s arms. Dean looks ready to kill something but John meets his fiery eyes with a calm gaze and Dean’s face crumbles.

“He’s gotta be okay”, he says and John chooses not to comment on the way his voice isn’t steady at all.

He checks Sam over for injuries and shuts out any and all emotion when he sees all the blood. The dog managed to rip his skin open all the way from his shoulder blades down to his hip. On the back of his head a cut is bleeding from where he hit the ground. What causes John’s heart to turn into stone, however, is the puncture marks on his neck where the skinwalker bit down.

It takes a single bite for the infection to take root. A single bite to turn normal into abnormal. A single bite to take his son away from him forever.

He does the only thing he can think of that doesn’t include putting a bullet in his son’s chest and then his own head.

He bends down and sucks on the still bleeding wound. When his mouth is flooded by the taste of iron, he leans away to spit. He ducks down again and keeps sucking. The third time he spits he fight back the urge to hurl but he goes down again. He doesn’t notice anything else. Not until Dean shakes his shoulder violently.

“Dad! Dad! You gotta stop! He’s dying, he’s lost too much blood”, Dean shouts at him and John can suddenly see where he’s pressing his other hand to the still bleeding cut on Sam’s head.

The gashes down his side are leaking the life out of his boy. His clothes are completely soaked through, the blood is so dark it looks black. Sam’s face is pale and John can see that Dean is right. Even if he manages to suck the poison out of him, he won’t make it out alive at all if he keeps going.

“Get the car”, he tells Dean and lifts Sam up in his arms.

Dean is running and John walks as fast as he can without jostling Sam too much. A few minutes and an eternity later, the roar of the Impala greets John’s ear like the bells from angels and when he catches sight of the headlight of the vehicle, he jogs the last few paces. Dean is out the car and opens the door to the backseat and John gets them inside. Dean drives them back the way they came, nose set on the nearest hospital. John’s pretty sure Dean doesn’t step off the gas during the entire ride.

 

~*~

 

When he wakes up it goes from complete and utter blackness to searing pain in the interval between two heartbeats. He gasps and tries to move and, when the pain doubles, regrets it with fervor.

“Sammy?” Dean asks from somewhere to his right.

Sam is busy breathing through the pain to look at him right now, though, so he just wheezes out an affirmative. His head is killing him and the brightness in the room is doing something entirely unfair by not turning off when his eyes burn. He takes calm, controlled breaths, holding on to the air for a few seconds before pressing it out again between pursed lips. It helps. A little.

He takes in the smell of the sheets around him which distinctly do not smell of gun oil, cheap detergent or even Dean. The scratchy material and the hard mattress clues him in on the fact that he has landed himself in hospital. Life is terrible like that.

“What’s up?” he manages to rasp out and finally, slowly, turns to Dean.

Dean’s face is a mask of worry with deep circles under his eyes, revealing that he hasn’t slept for who knows how many hours.

“You look like shit”, he croaks to Dean and is rewarded with a weak smile.

“Yeah? Seen yourself lately, princess? There’s saying something about losing half a gallon of blood in the middle of a forest.”

“Huh”, says Sam intelligently.

A doctor comes in briefly to check Sam out. She asks him about what he remembers and makes sure everything’s okay. Sam doesn’t know what story his dad has fabricated for him so he mumbles out that his head hurts. Dean looks worried but the doctor says it’s perfectly normal to not remember the events of, and leading up to, a traumatic event. She’ll check in on him later, she promises and walks out again.

Tentatively he raises a hand to feel his neck, but he’s wrapped up in a ton of bandages. He’s a little surprised he didn’t notice before.

He vaguely remembers hearing Dean scream his name and looking up, seeing the skinwalker coming at him. It wasn’t a decision so much as instinct having him fall into a defensive position. After that, it’s sort of… blurry. There was pain, and blood, he clearly remembers the blood, but also hands on his face and he’s pretty sure he felt the dog land on top of him.

“Local anesthesia”, Dean explains because he is a mind reader. “They had to stitch you up from collarbone to ear.”

Sam isn’t imagining the waver in Dean’s voice and he swallows because that is a big area and very close to some important veins that should not be opened. He knows this because Dad has explained to him about arteries and veins and where to cut to kill and where to cut to drain and where to cut to just test for silver.

“Was it-“, he asks and can’t finish the question, isn’t even sure what he’s asking.

“They gave you a blood transfusion, said you came close to hypovolemic shock. You were in the ER for five hours and they didn’t let anyone in for another fourteen.”

Sam feels a bit lightheaded. He could have died. He might have _been_ dead for all he knows. He looks at Dean who’s ashen-faced and sitting perfectly still with his hands pulled into fists resting on his knees. Yeah, this was bad. Dean meets his gaze and something goes very soft and vulnerable in his eyes.

Sam lifts his arm to reach out to him and is glad he doesn’t have to try for long because when did his arm get so heavy? Dean grips his hand in both of his and Sam feels the warmth spread from his hands up his arm, all the way into his heart that is still beating.

They sit and listen to the slow traffic out the window, the hurried steps out in the corridor, the low conversations taking place in another world separate from their own bubble.

“What about the-?” Sam once again doesn’t really ask, and Dean stares at him for a long minute.

“You killed it. Silver blade straight to the heart. Dad shot it a couple of extra times just to be sure but it was already dead.”

Sam can’t help the small bubble of pride building in his chest and he cracks a smile. Dean huffs.

“Yeah, you did great, kiddo. Next time you might want to prioritize staying vertical, though.”

“Shut up, I killed a skinwalker”, Sam wheezes out over broken vocal chords, a shit-eating grin stretching across his face.

He definitely deserves to be a little bit smug about this.

“Look at you. You should watch it so your ugly mug doesn’t get stuck like that”, Dean grumbles but his hands don’t let go of Sam’s.

Their moment is interrupted by the door banging open and John barging in. His face is a pallet of emotions and when he locks in on Sam it wavers dangerously.

“Sam”, he barks.

“Sir”, Sam rasps.

They stare at each other for a long while. Sam’s chest feels tight with worry. His hand in Dean’s grasp spasms. He is vulnerable, stretched out like this on a bed, and though he didn’t feel exposed just a minute ago when it was just Dean sitting by his side, he feels weak now, with his dad staring down on him.

“Are you feeling- How are you?” Dad asks and he doesn’t sway but Sam can sense his discomfort.

“I dunno. Kinda heavy”, he mutters and wishes he could jump up and salute him.

“’course you do. Lost a lot of blood”, Dad answers and finally steps into the actual room.

He glances at Dean and makes a not so subtle nod to the door. Dean stands up, dropping his hold on Sam who bites back a protest. Fine, his dad wants to talk to him privately, he isn’t going to whine about it.

When Dean’s gone, Dad sits in his chair and leans forward, elbows balancing on his knees and resting his chin on his knuckles. He doesn’t look straight at Sam but rather at the wall behind him. Dressed in his familiar leather jacket, scruffy jeans, his hair unwashed and smelling of dirt, Sam thinks Dad should strike him as an imposing figure.

His voice is very gravely when he speaks. “Sam, what you did in that forest… it was dangerous, reckless and almost ended up being the last thing you ever did.”

He lets the words hang there and Sam feels very small.

“I’ve raised you to be smart, to take care of yourself.” Once again he pauses to breathe, deep puffs through his nose. “Hunting is… unpredictable. There’s a lot you can’t take into account.” The amount of time that passes between each statement is enough for Sam’s heart to stutter him into an early grave. “I should have been more careful. You should never have been that close to a monster before you could handle it.”

Sam feels it would be appropriate to protest here because, hey, he did actually kill the thing and he thinks he deserves some credit for that. His dad isn’t done, though, so he shuts up and waits.

“I thought I was gonna die when I saw that- that _dog_ collide with you. I thought I was gonna lose you”, Dad says and Sam hears the unspoken _too_ at the end of that sentence.

Dad wipes a hand over his face, the stubble on his unshaven cheeks rasps out a familiar sound and Sam wishes he could still feel it against his forehead, like when Dad hugged him when he was still little.

“You have to be more careful than this. Even if you survived the attack, if your brother and I hadn’t been there, you would still have-“, Dad’s voice chokes up.

They’re a family and Sam can’t think of a situation where he would ever be hunting alone but the words have his guts twisting in fear.

“It _bit_ you, Sam”, Dad forces out and yeah, Sam knows, he’s got the bandages neck to prove it. He must notice the incomprehension from his face because he goes on. “A skinwalker transfers its poison via saliva. All it takes is one bite and you’ll turn into one of them.”

Sam’s vision goes dark and he thinks he might be floating. He’s going to become one of the things his father hunts. Why did he even bother taking Sam to the hospital? Why didn’t he just pierce his heart and get it over with? Why didn’t Dean say anything when he was here? Was he even going to get to see him again or had that been goodbye?

His heart rate monitor is going on the fritz and a nurse comes around the corner with a worried frown. He casts a glance on the monitor, sees Dad sitting there like any other concerned parent, or a dangerous stranger. It doesn’t appear to matter. He gestures for Dad to get out, speaking in a low and serious voice. His dad looks reluctant. He clearly has more to say.

“Sam, you’re fine”, he tells him before he nods to the nurse and heads out.

Sam isn’t sure he heard right but before Dad turns a corner and disappears he looks back at Sam and smiles reassuringly. Sam has no idea what any of it means. He’s going to turn into a monster and Dad says it’s fine. He’s fine because his dad will kill him and make sure he never hurts anyone fine, or he’s fine because his dad will lock him up and keep him safe and sound, hid from the rest of the world fine, or fine because he somehow didn’t get infected and Dad just gave Sam the biggest scare of his life for no reason fine?

He spends the rest of the day thinking about it, worrying. In the evening, when the lights are turned off, he barely sleeps.

 

~*~

 

“Singer Salvage, how can I help?” a gruff voice answers.

John takes a deep breath and tries to calm his thoughts. “Yeah, Bobby, hi, it’s John Winchester.”

There’s a brief pause and John curses his hot temper, because they did not leave things in a good place last time they spoke and John can now only hope that Bobby’s a forgiving man.

“John, what can I do for ya?” Bobby eventually says.

“It’s Sam…”, John says and can’t get the rest of the words out.

“What about him?” Bobby says immediately, switching over from reserved to worried, and John grits his teeth.

He’s not going to tell the man to mind his own damn business, that it’s not his boys and that John is perfectly fine raising his own sons, thank you very much. He’s _not._

“We were on a hunt”, he answers and waits for Bobby to cut in, tell him he’s a moron for bringing his twelve year old on a hunt if he cares at all about losing him. The silence on the other end is deafening but apparently Bobby feels he’s made his point on that clear already. “A skinwalker… and well, Sam, he, uh, he got bit.”

A beat, and then:

“You stupid son of a bitch!” Bobby roars at him. “Bringing that child with you, knowing the risks. I warned ya, and now, now-!”

John listens to the long tirade about responsibility and family and agrees with some and rages internally at other things, but he waits until Bobby’s finished.

“So? What’d’ya call me for? There ain’t no cure and you know that. Or are you calling to help you get the cops off your ass for shooting your own son? Huh? Have you done it yet?”

“He didn’t turn.”

A breath’s silence.

“Bullshit.”

“He didn’t. I’ve kept watch over symptoms and there’s not a single one. He didn’t turn.”

“Well then he didn’t get bitten.”

“I sucked the poison out myself. I could show you the fucking teeth marks if it’d please you, but there are no signs of him turning.”

“You sucked it out? What, are you suicidal? Do you not put enough risk to yourself without chucking down skinwalker venom?”

“Would you not have done the same thing?” John challenges and really, there is nothing Bobby can say to that without being a complete hypocrite. “Yeah, I sucked it out and then took him to the hospital for a blood transfusion. He’s looking better, woken up and everything.”

“So? What’s the problem?” Bobby asks and they both know that he knows.

“Because he shouldn’t have. You and I both know that if the poison didn’t turn him, he should have died. I’m grasping at straws here, Bobby, I don’t know what’s happening… Is there something, anything, in one of those books you’ve got lying around that can explain this? Because I’m losing my mind.”

There is some shuffling on the other end and John strains his ear. Finally Bobby’s voice comes back, “I’ll check but I really don’t think-“

“What is it? What are you thinking?”

Bobby’s reluctance is clear in his voice as he answers, “There’s only one reason monster venom of any kind wouldn’t take effect, really.”

“Yeah? What’s that?”

“Well, it’s logical if you think about it. You’ve never run into a werewolf slash vampire or a ghoul that’s also an Arachne…”

“A what?”

“A sort of spider hybrid-, never mind. Point is, if there’s something already infecting the blood, another poison won’t interfere. Sort of Darwinism for monsters, I guess.”

John stares at the wall. Licks his dry lips and tries to swallow.

“So, what you’re saying is that Sam… You’re saying Sam’s already some kind of a monster?”

“Didn’t say that.”

“Then what the hell are you saying?” John shouts in the phone.

“You calm yourself down, Winchester, or you’re no good at all.” Bobby’s voice is calm, reasonable and it’s driving John up the wall.

“Just tell me what the fuck you’re talking about!”

“I said there’s something else _in_ Sam’s blood, not that it’s activated or turning him into something else. Just that it’s there and protecting him from other shit turning him.”

“But-, I mean, what could-, what does that?”

“Haven’t the faintest.” John’s about to throw the receiver into the wall but Bobby goes on. “I’ll look into it. In the meantime, why don’t you spend some times with your boys, John. Take them to a wrestling game, go fishing, appreciate that they’re both still alive and you haven’t screwed them up enough for them to hate you just yet.”

The underlying worry in Bobby’s words is the only thing stopping John from lashing out. He grumblingly thanks Bobby and hangs up. He stares at the phone for a long time, contemplating his choices.

If something’s wrong with Sam, he’s going to fix it. If there is venomous blood running through his son’s veins, there’s something that put it there with the intent of either kill or recruit him. Something that will come for Sam eventually. John is going to be there when that happens.

 

~*~

 

Sam stays in the hospital for another two days, but he’s moved from intensive care to observation the morning after he wakes up. By the time he checks out, he’s dying to get out of there. Dean and Dad have been to visit him every day but the hours in between have been endless.

He slides into the Impala with Dean’s hands hovering nervously around him and Sam almost bites his head off when Dean bends in to help put on the seatbelt for him. Soon they’re on the road, though, and the smell of the car and the classic rock music is all so comfortingly familiar he forgets to be pissed off when Dean actually follows the speed limit.

He’s been given pain medication that goes with food only and twice a day even if the pain gets bad. Dean makes him take them even though he protests and says he’s fine.

“We don’t know when we might need painkillers and won’t have access to the real stuff. Just save it, I’m feeling fine!” Sam says and tries to push away Dean’s hands that offer him two pills and a glass of water.

“Just eat the damn pills”, Dean sighs.

When Sam just glares at him, he scoffs, puts the glass on the table and tips Sam’s head back. It’s a low blow because Sam can’t use his muscles in most of his torso so he squirms very carefully but Dean is determined. He stuffs the pills into Sam’s mouth, holding his warm, calloused hand over him so he can’t spit them out again while he turns around to grab the water. He pours it down Sam’s throat so he doesn’t have a choice but to swallow or he’ll choke. He almost does anyway because swallowing with his head bent backwards like this is hard.

“See, wasn’t that easy?” Dean asks and goes to put a scoop of macaroni casserole on a plate that he brings over to Sam.

“When I get better I’m gonna punch you in the throat”, Sam promises and refuses to speak to him for the remainder of the meal.

When it’s time to go to bed, Sam’s tired of being mad and Dad isn’t home and he misses Dean. So when he has painstakingly changed into his night clothes, he crawls into Dean’s bed instead of his own. Dean’s still getting ready in the bathroom so he doesn’t notice Sam until he comes out, smelling of mint from the toothpaste and looking much younger in just underpants and t-shirt. He stops by the foot of the bed.

“Nuh-uh, not sleeping in here”, he says and pulls down the cover that Sam has finally managed to get warm.

“But De~eaaan”, he whines, a trick he’s used more times that he cares to admit. His brother is a sucker for the pitiful looks and Sam is a master.

“Not happening”, Dean says relentlessly and tugs until Sam’s useless body is pulled up into first sitting and then standing position. “You have your own goddamn bed; go sleep in that one.”

“But I wanna sleep with you”, Sam says and pushes himself against Dean who’s standing very still.

A couple of seconds pass before Sam’s words catch up to him and he flushes all over. That didn’t come out right.

“I have nightmares and when I was in the hospital I couldn’t get to you and I just want you here”, he explains and okay, he doesn’t have nightmares in the way Dean will think when told like this. He dreams of fire and darkness and of being left alone, but that has been true for as long as he can remember.

Dean looks split and Sam feels victorious. He leans in and smells Dean’s unique smell that transports him back in time to when they shared a tiny queen bed the nights when Dad wasn’t away on a hunt. He feels safe when enveloped in his brother’s arms and he really wants to not think about anything right about now.

But Dean is not softening, still standing stiff as a board and Sam feels silly pressing himself against this unmovable wall.

“You’re too big to sleep in my bed, Sammy. We’re both too old to be doing shit like that anymore”, Dean says and gently but firmly removes Sam’s arms from around himself.

He all but shoves Sam out of his room and closes the door after him.

“Holler if you need anything. I’ll be right down the corridor”, he mutters right before the door shuts in his face.

Sam feels incredibly cold as he crawls into his own bed. Dean’s words make it sound like something dirty, something to be ashamed of and Sam doesn’t want to feel dirty. Still, it’s nestled up right next to his heart and he hurts. He stares out on the night sky and wishes he could see some constellations from here but it’s completely black.

It is many hours until the sleepless nights in the hospital catch up to him and he’s pulled under.

 

~*~

 

It’s Thursday two weeks after Sam was picked up from football practice and Fiona was pretty sure she would never see the young boy again when he turns up in class in the morning as if nothing happened. He doesn’t talk to anyone, doesn’t raise his head. Just sits down quietly, getting his things in order. She doesn’t know what to make of it.

As the lesson progresses she notices that he keeps looking out the window instead of taking notes. It’s not like him. His inattention spikes Fiona’s warning bells and she decides to talk to him when the hour is up.

No one else seems to care that their classmate is back. It’s sad, she thinks. After a couple of weeks, he still hasn’t made any friends. In a small town like this where everybody already knows each other.

The minutes tick on and even with a very specific schedule for today Fiona keeps looking at the grand clock on the wall she can see out the window on the school building. By the time she is collecting the homework quiz she’s ready to call it a day and let them all leave early, but the gods are merciful and the clock chimes the end of class. She leaves them with a few words for tomorrow and then hurries down the aisle to where Sam is hurriedly packing up his things.

“Sam”, she greets him and he looks up at her.

She has to force down a gasp because from her place at the board she didn’t notice the bandage peeking up from his neck. He looks pale and the blue shadows under his eyes stand out, making him look sick. It’s a marked difference from just a few days ago and her minds spins, imagining all kinds of horrible scenarios, all of in which Sam plays the nightmarish main character.

“Mrs. Davidson?” Sam asks, ever polite.

“Would you mind coming with me to my office? I just need to speak with you for a little bit.”

Sam hesitates, bites his lip which already looks battered enough.

“Is something the matter, Mrs. Davidson?” he asks and though it is a perfectly valid question, all mild-mannered enquiry, she can practically hear the calculations taking place in his mind.

“No, no, nothing to worry about”, she says, mindful of the students still milling about around them, all with much too big ears on. She can imagine the seconds it would take for this piece of gossip to reach the entire student body. “I just want to talk about the lessons you missed”, she lies.

Sam nods slowly and packs the last piece of paper into his bag and follows her out the door. She takes him to her office, and gestures for the sofa by the wall.

“I’ll just be a few minutes”, she tells him and closes the door after him.

Through the glass she can see Sam drop his bag on the floor by his feet and sit.

She steps into Mr. Whitfield’s office, pulls the door not quite closed and picks up the phone. The call takes only a few minutes and she wishes it wasn’t as familiar as it is.

When she steps back into her own office, Sam is still sitting on the sofa. He looks at her as she comes to sit down next to him. Waits for her to speak. She feels cotton grow in her mouth.

“Sam”, she starts and wishes this part could be easier. Hopes it never will be.

“I know what it looks like”, he tells her and she closes her mouth. “You saw my scars last week and now I show up looking like someone used me as a punching bag.”

She waits for him to continue because most children of abuse don’t actually know what kind of picture they present. Think they are invisible.

“I was in the hospital and then spent the last few days in bed with my family hovering about me like…”, Sam trails off and for a few moments he doesn’t speak.

“What happened, Sam?” she prompts him when no more words seem forthcoming.

“We went camping and I got attacked by a wild dog.”

She almost laughs. Most stories goes along the lines of _fell off my bike_ or _walked into a door_. It’s the first time she’s heard _wild dog_. After a few moments of silence, though, she pauses and really looks at him. Sam sits very still under her scrutiny, just meets her gaze and waits for her to challenge his claim.

“You can confirm it with the hospital if you want to”, he says finally. “I had to be given a rabies shot and I’ve got seventeen stitches to show for it.”

“Where was your dad?” she asks.

Sam squirms and stills just as quickly. “He saw the dog attack. Got there as soon as he could, shot the thing when he got close enough.” He’s staring at his hands as he says this.

“Were you scared?”

He flinches. His hands form fists and he doesn’t look up. His breathing has sped up but even as she thinks it, he seems to manually take control of his reaction and visibly calms down. A car outside sounds its horn and still no one says anything.

“What did your dad say to you, after the attack?” she asks.

No answer comes this time either. Fiona breathes out very quietly.

“Can I fix you up a cup of hot chocolate, Sam?” she asks.

“D’you got coffee?” he asks and she bites back a response about him being too young to drink coffee, just steps out to the coffee machine in the corridor and pours him a cup.

He takes it gratefully and cups his hands around the ceramic, absorbing its heat. For a few minutes they just sit there. It’s not a comfortable silence but it’s not tense, either. Sam slowly sips on the coffee, his face smoothing out in relief as the bitter liquid hits his taste buds. He’s clearly not just playing grown-up. He has the expression of someone who has been addicted for a long time.

“Sam”, she starts once again when it looks like he has relaxed for real. “Could you tell me about your dad?”

“Works a lot”, Sam says, quickly, rehearsed.

“What about when he’s home? Does he cook dinner? Help you with homework?”

Sam snorts and then looks chagrinned. “He’s very busy. Dean’s usually the one doing the cooking.”

“And homework?”

“I manage that by myself”, Sam says and puts the empty cup on the small table in front of the sofa.

“What if you need help with something? Can you go to your father?” Sam looks unsure so she elaborates. “Like if you need money, or if you’re worried about something, if someone is mean to you in school.”

Sam still doesn’t look like he understands, but he schools his expression and nods. “Yeah, no, sure. I can ask him anything, but mostly I just go to Dean.”

“Are you afraid he’ll hurt you if you interrupt him when he’s busy?”

There is a moment of stillness and Fiona forces herself to sit still.

“My dad isn’t hitting me”, Sam says carefully.

“Maybe not all the time-“, Fiona begins but Sam interrupts her.

“Not any of the time! He doesn’t hurt us! He protects us!” Sam says but his voice has got loud, and prepubescent as he is, his voice breaks. He colors up immediately and glares at the floor.

Fiona pretends she doesn’t hear it. “Protect you from what?” she asks, a cold tendril running down her spine.

Sam doesn’t answer.

“You have a lot of scars on your body…” she leaves the statement open for Sam to fill in.

“I got into a lot of accidents as a kid”, Sam explains, the words dragging slowly out of his mouth, like every word is a chore.

“What about Dean? Does he ever-“

“Dean would never lay a finger on me”, Sam snaps and when he looks up at her, there is a fire in his eyes.

She has clearly overstepped a line. She swallows. It is her job to ask these questions when her students exhibit these signs.

“I believe you”, she says and Sam breathes out slowly.

“Can I go back to class now?” he asks, his fingers already crawling around the hook on the bag.

“I’d like you to talk to someone first”, she says and Sam looks up at her incomprehensively.

“Wh-“.

“It’s a woman who’s experienced with this type of situations, and she’ll be able to help you”, Fiona explains.

“You called social services”, Sam says hollowly. His eyes have gone blank and he stares unseeingly at the wall.

 

~*~

 

“I won’t be gone more than a day, two, tops”, John explains to Dean.

Dean’s standing awkwardly by the couch in the living room, almost vibrating out of his skin but he won’t say anything. John knows he won’t.

Dean’s the one who claimed he should be home for Sam while he recuperates and John respects that. He made the calls to Dean’s school and explained about the family emergency. They were all very understanding. John doesn’t, however, have the luxury to stay cooped up another day when there’s a case just a couple of towns over. If he can save someone the horrible fate of losing a loved one, he won’t be responsible for their loss.

“You hold down the fort”, he says, only half-joking but Dean smiles a little anyway.

“Yessir.”

He really won’t say anything. John takes in the hands that are gripping the upholstery on the couch, his feet not quite tapping but not resting in the at ease position, either. He’s biting his lip and staring hard at the ground between them.

“Lives are at stake, Dean”, he says even though Dean doesn’t ask.

Dean knows as well as he does, about the darkness that is out there and the costs they have agreed to bear with the Life. It might just be the lingering guilt that is messing with him but he feels queasy. Like he shouldn’t leave. Like he needs to be here. He shakes it off, nods stiffly and walks out the door.

“Call if you need me”, he says but he knows Dean knows that he won’t call. Not unless something really bad happens. He hopes he won’t ever get a phone call like that from his son.

The door closes behind him and he packs up the Impala and drives away.

 

~*~

 

Sam is picked up from school by a woman who introduced herself as Carla Huber.

She is wearing a dark grey dress suit with a pencil skirt and low black shoes. Sam studies them critically, thinking he could easily outrun her if it came to that. He knows it won’t, but when she leads him into a small room with a table, two chairs and a window that’s covered by beige, inoffensive curtains, he certainly considers it.

“Why don’t you make yourself comfortable, Sam, while I get us something to eat”, she doesn’t quite ask and leaves him there.

He notices a bookshelf when he turns around to look at her retreating form and is sucked in without thinking about it. He’s heaves a sigh when he sees the titles. _You don’t have to hit to hurt_ , _Child Abuse and Neglect_ , _The Bad Touch_ and _Daddy Did Wrong_ are just a few titles that stand out to him.

He gives up and goes to sit on the chair where he can still see the door. Through the curtain he can see the intersect they came through, driving from the school. He wasn’t even allowed to call Dean. Ms. Huber just told him to grab his jacket and come, they’ll take care of the rest.

_The rest_ is informing his family they are being accused of child abuse and neglect. The rest is going to pick up his things at the old house they might not even legally be renting. The rest is placing him in a home while they wait for the jury to decide if his dad is allowed to care for him or if he’ll be taken away for good.

He glances at the open door through which he doesn’t see anyone check in on him or even pass by. He could just… go. He’s very stealthy. Dean’s said so the many times he managed to sneak up on him during tracking practice. Even Dad ruffled his hair once and looked so darn proud that Sam reconsidered every time he’d rebelled instead of followed where John pointed blindly.

He eyes the hatch on the window. Not unbreakable. He still has his lock picks in his bag. There is a fire escape just to the side, he could probably reach it if he swung hard enough.

“Not considering running, are you?” Ms. Huber asks as she comes back in.

She doesn’t look the least bit surprised that Sam is fingering the window hatch, or that he sits down with a blush spreading over the tips of his ears when she plants a sandwich on the table in front of him.

“I wasn’t gonna-“

“Of course not. Especially seeing as those windows are sealed shut since the last girl tried to jump out through them and broke her ankle in the attempt.”

“I’m not stupid”, Sam feels a sudden need to defend his masterplan that was admittedly pretty made up on the spot. “I was gonna use the fire escape.”

Ms. Huber pulls the curtain away and looks considering on the distance from the window to the metal contraption leading from the roof down to the ground. She raises a delicate eyebrow.

Her eyes are grey as well, Sam notices when she takes a seat opposite him. They match her intense look.

“Sam, I spoke to your teacher, Mrs. Davidson, and to the doctor that treated you at Avista Adventist Hospital, and they tell me you have some injuries, both old and new. I think you’re old enough to understand that as a grown-up responsible for your wellbeing, that raises a few red flags.”

She talks and Sam can’t help but think that she’s actually speaking _to_ him, not just at him. She’ll listen to him when he tells her the lie they’ve constructed for situations like this, the misunderstanding will be cleared up and he’ll get to go home. This nightmare will be over.

“I need you to tell me how you got those, Sam. Is someone hurting you?”

He looks at her, bores his eyes into hers and wills her to believe him. “No.”

A few seconds pass during which the staring contest goes on. She doesn’t let on what she thinks. “Mrs. Davidson said you went camping with your dad and brother. Is that something you do often?”

“Yeah, we go every once in a while. Dad really likes being close to nature. He teaches us a bunch of stuff like what you can eat, what’s poisonous, how to make up a fire and stuff like that.” Stuff like how to kill a werewolf, survive without food for a week and how to build a spear that can take down a wild animal. He goes with the more innocent examples, because his dad taught him those things, too.

“When you’re out camping, do you all sleep together in the same tent?”

Sam shrugs. “Usually.” Except when we have to build our own huts.

“Does he ever touch you?”

Does a smack over the head for forgetting to clean the knife he used to gut the rabbit count? She’s staring at him really intensely and it takes him a moment for her true meaning to sink in. _Does he touch you inappropriately, where he shouldn’t, on your private parts?_

His face probably does something because she looks relieved and moves on.

“Does he hit you?”

This line of questioning is really starting to wear on his patience. “He never lays a hand on me! Why don’t you listen? He’s not hurting me, he’s not hurting Dean, Dean’s not hurting me. No one hurts anyone!”

He has probably screamed more eloquent things at his dad during one of their screaming matches but he feels he’s at least getting his point across.

“Has he told you not to tell anyone?” she asks and Sam face-plants on the desk with a groan.

“You’re not listening to a word I’m saying”, he tells the table. “Look”, he says as he looks up at her. “I like to play sports, I tussle with my big brother. I sometimes get into fights with bigger guys when I can’t keep my mouth shut. Sometimes I get hurt, I fall off my bike or- or cut myself when I’m not careful with the knife. But my dad would never hurt me. I just… live a vibrant life.”

It sounds lame and an understanding look is slowly descending on Ms. Huber’s face. Sam grits his teeth.

“In a few moments I’ve asked Dr. Reilly to take a look at you”, she tells Sam. “He’ll just make a small assessment and that will be all.”

“I was looked at by at least three different doctors and nurses just last week. Why don’t you ask them what they thought? Oh, right you did.” His sarcasm is a defense mechanism, he knows this, but he still can’t shut up, his mouth running away with him. “Like a repeat performance? A front row seat to the show? D’you get kicks out of taking kids from their families and accusing them of being perverts and abusive dicks?”

“If you feel uncomfortable having me in the room or with a male doctor-“

“Oh my God!” Sam yells and looks up in the ceiling for heavenly intervention.

“We want to help you, Sam. These things, the scars on your body and your behavior, they are symptoms of an abusive home environment. We just need to find out what’s going on. If your family is not hurting you, you’ll get to go back to them and this will just be an unpleasant memory. But if something _is_ going on, Sam, I need to find out so that I can-“

“What?! Do what? Take my family away from me? Place me in foster care? No one’s even going to take in a kid like me. I’ll be placed in a home somewhere where I’ll spend the rest of my life until I’m eighteen being alone, even more of a freak than I am now!”

Sam’s standing up, hands planted on the table in front of him and he’s panting, probably red in the face. Ms. Huber looks back, calmly.

“Are you afraid of being alone? Is that why you are protecting your dad, Sam?”

Sam might actually start crying. He kicks the chair away from him and paces the floor.

“It’s normal to become very dependent on the few people that have been with you since you were born when you move around as much as you have. It might grow into an unhealthy dependency where they start controlling your behavior and punish you when you step out of line. Your dad was in the Marines where discipline was maybe the most valued quality. It might come naturally to him to expect the same of his children.”

Sam doesn’t want to listen to this. Especially as she starts edging closer to what is actually true about him. Fortunately, he doesn’t have to, because before he has time to think of a reply, there’s a knock on the door.

“Ms. Huber”, a man says when she opens the door.

“Dr. Reilly, thank you for coming”, she says and lets him in.

He doesn’t look like a doctor, dressed in a shirt and vest, dress pants and boots. Then again, everyone here wears boots. Sam can admit he doesn’t actually know what doctors are supposed to look like beyond that they usually have the indicative white coat to match the creepy gloves they insist on snapping on. At least in that fashion Dr. Reilly doesn’t disappoint. When he has greeted Sam with a warm, dry hand, he opens his bag and pulls out a pair of medical gloves in a soft blue color.

“Would you mind taking off your shirt, Sam?” Dr. Reilly asks.

Sam really would mind, but he can hear as easily as when Dad asks him to go do his training that this isn’t a request. He fumbles with the cuffs of his plaid shirt and ignores the trickling sweat on his back. Ms. Huber is looking through her briefcase but Dr. Reilly is just silently waiting for him. If Sam was told to rank his most uncomfortable situations…

Dr. Reilly’s hands are soft where they touch his skin. He skims over old scars, measures their width, presses carefully on some bruises that still hurt, removes the dressing on his bandage around his neck.

His lips are getting progressively thinner. Sam feels an urgent need to cover up his skin. He’s not nearly as marked as Dad or even Dean. In their house, there is nothing abnormal with having skin riddled in white lines, crisscrossing his back, drawing up along his legs and stomach. It’s normal, expected even. They represent lives they’ve changed, people they have saved from tragedy. In the Winchester home, scars are a pride.

It doesn’t feel like something to be proud about when Dr. Reilley’s hands push into his spine, bend his fingers that have been dislocated a few times by now, and trail gently along the skin where the impact with the ground created internal bruising, turning the area almost black.

He refuses to show his discomfort, though, and stares resolutely at the wall in front of him. _Always have control of the situation, Sam_ , his dad tells him in his mind.

They had been hunting a poltergeist at the time and Sam was complaining about their plan of attack. He was right; the poltergeist grabbed him by the throat and pressed him to the ceiling as leverage against Dad and Dean. Sam ended up shoving a fistful of salt into its face, making it drop him unceremoniously to the floor, but the standoff was broken. His dad praised him as Dean wrapped his wrist later that night.

Right here and now there isn’t much for Sam to take control _of_ but he still clings to the words. They are inspecting his injuries because _he_ gave them access to them.

“Thank you, Sam. You can put your clothes back on”, Dr. Reilly finally says and steps away.

While Sam dresses they walk out into the hall to talk. The door is left ajar so Sam hears every word.

“They’re varying in age. I’d put some of them as early as three years old, but that’s a rough estimate.”

“Are they from ruffling with his brother or falling off his bike?” Ms. Huber asks.

Dr. Reilly huffs. It doesn’t sound very amused. “Some of them are from accidents, I’m sure. Normal things you’d find on a child with an active lifestyle. Small cuts on knees and such.”

“And the others?”

There is a short silence where Sam strains his ears, thinking they’ve started talking in lower voices but then Dr. Reilly answers. “Some are deliberate. The precision, the placement, I’d say knife or shards from something. What worries me are the tissue damage to some areas that can be caused by extreme violence.”

“What exactly-“

“Like being thrown into a wall or being bashed by heavy objects.” There is a grim determination to Dr. Reilly’s words.

Sam stops listening. He doesn’t need to know what Ms. Huber will be thinking after that assessment. He’ll be lucky if he gets to see Dad under supervised visits. Salty tears are burning behind his eyes and he forces them down. As long as he can get to a phone, give Dean a call, they’ll figure it out. He just needs to talk to Dean.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The titles of the books are real but I haven't read them.
> 
> Comments are love <3


	3. Chapter 3

Carla Huber has been to a lot of children’s homes.

She has seen unwashed laundry, dirty dishes, beer bottles and garbage bags on pile slowly stinking up apartments. Safe to say, she has seen most of what there is to see and she doesn’t think there is much that can surprise her anymore. It never stops saddening her that parents or guardians can be so blasé about the child they’re raising in such an unfit environment.

When they stop in front of the old rundown shack of a house, she’s expecting the usual. The father and brother aren’t allowed here when she and Sam come to pick up his things. Maybe they’ll have made an effort to clean up before they were forced to leave. Some people are like that. Fixing up the façade in a frenzy when someone is about to come and inspect it.

She secretly studies Sam’s face when he pulls out a key and inserts it into the lock. His face isn’t showing much of anything, though. Since the outburst at the office he has been very careful about expressing any emotion at all. After a small inquiry about calling Dean, words have been scant, too.

When the door swings open, she walks into the house in front of him. In some very rare cases the families sneak back in a desperate attempt at getting to their child. Luckily, the house is empty and her mind is occupied by that thought for a second before she registers what she’s seeing.

The area is clean. It doesn’t even have that lingering feeling of a place that is usually uncared for. She can see thin dust layers on the cabinet and TV, there are no drying dishes in the stand, no smell of days old pizza or even the strong smell of cleaning detergents. The place is clean in that way which speaks of being kept that way. The furniture is sparse but she can understand that from what Mrs. Davidson told her about how they move around a lot.

The only thing out of the ordinary is the newspapers. Spread across the living room table are heaps of decades old papers, she realizes when she steps closer and looks at the dates. There’s another pile stacked by the front door, clearly done with its purpose. They’re obviously copied from the library archive and she supposes there are worse habits than keeping track of old news.

Sam walks past her and heads straight up to what she assumes is his room. She follows him. She’s curious about if she’ll see the same cleanliness in the pre-teen’s natural habitat or if he’ll feel safe enough to spread out his things.

His room is… not what she expected. There’s a bed, a desk and a cupboard that looks like they’ve been there since the house was built. On the desk she sees where Sam has stacked his homework in a neat pile. There are no toys, photo frames, model planes, collectable cards, rare stones or books that you would normally find in a young boy’s room.

Sam wastes no time, opening the cupboard, picking out a well-used and half-full duffel in which he starts throwing his clothes.

“You’ll need things for a week at least”, she tells him when words finally return to her. She doesn’t want him to be short of anything but she knows these things can drag on. “Maybe a couple of extra shirts…”

She doesn’t quite finish her sentence because as Sam is packing she can see the contents of the closet being emptied. Of everything. He has packed everything he owns and the duffel isn’t even full.

Sam nods, understanding the instructions, even as they have no practical implication for him. He steps away to grab his toiletries and she carefully steps over to the desk. In the pile she thought was only his homework she notices a book that doesn’t appear to belong there.

Lifting a few notebooks and a geography textbook she finally gets at the brick of a book her eyes caught on. It’s old, leather-bound and looks ancient. The title is in a language she can’t read. Maybe French, she thinks as she trails a finger across the _et_ inscribed in gold. She gets stuck on the _daemon_. French has its roots in Latin, so maybe that’s what it is. It’s heavy for a junior high school student, though.

When she opens it she feels the thick quality to the pages, sees the painstakingly handwritten text and realizes that it’s written entirely in the language on the cover. He has got to be fluent to understand this.

She’s silently marveling at the talent of this young man when he comes back from the bathroom. He puts the toothbrush, toothpaste, deodorant and body soap in the duffel, along with a packet of salt, a pocket-flask, and a dagger the length of his forearm.

“Wait, Sam!” she says and moves toward him in a hurry.

He looks up at her surprised but doesn’t stop packing.

“Yes, Ms. Huber? I’ll be done in just a second”, he says and turns to the disturbed pile of books on his desk.

“You can unpack the knife and bottle”, she says.

Sam clearly hears the demand for what it is because he lowers his shoulders and his back straightens out, like a soldier snapping to attention. His hands don’t stop packing, however. “I want to have them with me, just in case I won’t be back here for a while”, Sam explains and gently extracts the book she’s still holding. He closes it carefully, letting his fingers trail the cover, and slips it into the bag as well.

“You won’t need it anymore”, Carla counters and moves to unpack the things.

Two small hands grip her wrists in a firm hold and she breathes in quickly. The hands are strong, calloused and steady.

“Please don’t touch my things”, Sam says.

He looks at her with eyes that are full of _something_. She gently tries to disentangle her hands from his grasp and when he releases her it’s a careful move that tells her he could have chosen not to.

“Sam, I won’t allow you to bring a weapon into the family who’s been kind enough to take you in.” _They won’t take you in if they know you’re carrying a weapon_ , she doesn’t say but his guarded expression reveals that he already knows this.

“I won’t hurt them”, Sam says very quietly. “It’s for protection.”

“No one’s going to hurt you, Sam. Not anymore.”

She keeps her voice low and soothing, knows she’s walking a mine field. She still manages to step on a land mine. Sam’s eyes flash in anger.

“It’s not against my family”, Sam forces out between clenched teeth.

She watches the muscle in his jaw work as he calms down. He carefully removes the dagger and very pointedly puts it on the table behind them.

“The flask?” Carla reminds him.

“It’s just water. Check it yourself”, he says and hands it to her. “It’s an heirloom; a gift from Dad.”

She gingerly sniffs the contents and has to admit she can’t smell any alcohol. Still, she tips it slightly, catches a drop on her finger and presses it to her tongue. Just water. At least the father hasn’t imparted his drinking on his youngest just yet.

“What do you need the salt for?” she asks after she’s handed the flask back and Sam sips up the duffel.

“Purification”, Sam mutters and she does a double-take. “My dad believes in the old stuff about pouring salt on unholy ground to purify it”, Sam goes on with a shrug.

“Do you believe in it?”

There is a small silence that follows the question where Sam won’t meet her eyes, but he doesn’t unpack the salt, doesn’t move.

“I guess I do”, he says at last and slings the bag over his shoulder.

When she throws the bag into the trunk she realizes they’ve only been in the house a couple of minutes. She doesn’t think she has ever met a child who has been able to pack up their life in such a short amount of time.

Sam sits silently beside her as she drives them away. She imagines he has a lot to think about. Being confronted with the house he’s leaving behind does that to a person. She puts on the radio after a little while just to ease the tension. Her favorite station is playing old _dansband_ music and she’s quietly humming along to the lyrics she doesn’t understand. After a while she relaxes, lets the music sweep through her, concentrating on the slow traffic. Which is why it takes her a second to realize Sam’s talking to her.

“Do you know who I’m going to be living with until the trial?” Sam asks.

“Your homeroom teacher, Mrs. Davison, has agreed to let you stay at her place until we can find a more suitable home for you”, she answers and steals a peek in Sam’s direction.

He doesn’t appear to react in any particular way at these news. It’s not a negative reaction. She takes it as a win. When Sam opens his mouth to say something more, she allows herself to feel optimistic.

“Will I get to call Dean?” he asks and she bites back a sigh.

“It’s better if you have no contact with your family, especially now in the beginning. You’ll get to talk to them, and even see them, soon enough, but for now, Sam, I need you to be patient.”

He doesn’t answer. Just stares out the window and she focuses back on the road.

 

~*~

 

When Fiona gets into the driveway, the social worker, Ms. Huber, has already arrived with Sam. She jumps out to greet them, fumbling with the car key.

“Ms. Huber, Sam”, she says and shakes hands.

Sam is standing silent to the side, a sullen air about him and Fiona notices the bag slung over his shoulder. The home visit to collect his things, then. It’s fast work, even for a suspected child abuse case, Fiona thinks.

She unlocks the door for Sam, puts her own briefcase in the hallway and shows him into the living room.

“Why don’t you make yourself at home, Sam? I’ll be just outside, talking to Ms. Huber and hammering out some details and then we’ll make some dinner. Sounds good?”

Sam shrugs, apparently giving up on the manners now that he has been taken away from the man who instilled them in him. She leaves him there and closes the front door to avoid eavesdropping.

“How did it go?” she asks, feeling protective of the young boy she has barely known a few weeks and already caring more about his fate than some of the students she has been teaching for years.

Ms. Huber is staring out over the street, not answering. Possibly lost in thought. There’s a frown on her face that matches the small wrinkles that are beginning to show. Premature aging; Fiona supposes it’s normal in high-stress jobs. Fiona’s just about to call attention to her when she speaks.

“It wasn’t what I expected, and I’m not sure I can build a case out of this”, she admits and Fiona is taken aback.

“But the marks-“

“Yes, his scars and mannerisms are clear signs of previous abuse and I’ll be building on that. Though I might have to rely on that completely as it looks right now.”

“House looked good then, I take it?” Fiona asks curiously.

“Not good, exactly. It’s more like there is nothing obvious. I can’t believe I’m saying this, but unless the meeting with Mr. Winchester takes a turn for the worse, we might end up having to return Sam with a strict warning and some follow-up checks. I almost find myself hoping he’s a complete douchebag, pardon the language.”

Fiona thinks on the brief conversation she had with the man over the phone and furrows her brow. “I don’t think it’s going to be that easy. And frankly, if this turns out to be all there is, shouldn’t you be happy, to return a child to his family? That’s the happiest ending there is in these scenarios, right?”

Ms. Huber looks at her then, eyes serious and closed-off. “When I meet a child with as many scars and injuries as Sam has, it is only a question of finding enough evidence. I don’t want that man within a hundred miles of Sam and I’m going to make sure of it.”

Fiona swallows past a sudden wave of nausea because she hasn’t seen much of Sam’s broken body, but by the tone of Ms. Huber, the doctor’s diagnosis can’t have been good. Hitting a child, while maybe not the most damaging kind of abuse, is so beyond her understanding. She pushes the vivid picures away and focuses back on Ms. Huber.

“What now?”

“You’ve agreed to let him stay until the hearing, yes?” She waits until Fiona nods. “We’ll try to get in contact with Mr. Winchester again, take him in for questioning and then build a case if his interview allows for it. This can take weeks or even months but I’ll do what I can to push the process up.”

Months, Fiona thinks faintly. She knew when she accepted responsibility for Sam that it was a big commitment, but she hasn’t had a child in her home for many years.

“In the meantime”, Ms. Huber goes on, as if reading Fiona’s thoughts. “We’ll be looking for a suitable family. Given how close-knit this community is, we might be looking for a while before moving to a wider search field.”

“What should I tell him?” she asks, thinking about the family’s history with moving.

“We’ll avoid lying to him as much as possible. It’s important for him to have grown-ups in in his life that he feels he can rely on. It will also help later on with witness statements and therapy that he’ll have access to as soon as we can get the judge’s approval”, Ms. Huber explains. “That said, we shouldn’t worry him and in the face of a long absence from his family he might panic or withdraw, so we’ll tell him he’ll see them soon and get him a supervised visit within a couple of weeks. It should be enough to ward of any ill-ease. Hopefully, with some space from his father he’ll feel safe enough to open up to you and with a statement from the child, we’ll have a real chance at a solid case.”

Fiona knows the tracks in which Ms. Huber’s mind has to take, always thinking on the best approach for a positive verdict, but she can’t help but wish she would take a moment to consider Sam’s feelings and not just the implications in relation to the case.

“What about the older brother, Dean?” she asks. She doesn’t know the boy but she remembers him from picking up Sam at school.

“Once we’ve got a steady case for Sam, we’ll make an enquiry about Dean. But he’s older, and the school hasn’t been in touch about any red-flags. We’ll call them and have them keep and extra eye on him but for now, we’ll have to sit tight.”

“All right, then. Ms. Huber, thank you for coming by. I’ll go in and see to dinner now and we’ll keep in touch over the coming weeks, I assume.”

Ms. Huber stares at the uncut bushes by the house for a few seconds, lost in thought, but then she blinks, looks back at Fiona and gives a wary grimace.

“I should probably mention, he tried to bring a knife with him. I stopped him of course, but you should keep an eye out. And he brought salt, not sure what to make of that but I didn’t really have a reason to take it away from him, so there you have it.”

They shake hands again and Fiona watches her as she drives away.

As she heads inside, she wonders if Sam is allergic to anything, focusing her thoughts on what she should cook. She determinedly does not think about what the future holds for Sam, of his abusive father or the possibility that Sam might be more hurt than she ever realized.

 

~*~

 

The sun set a long time ago, and John watches the shadows cast by the gravestones and the surrounding greenery. The fire from the burnt bones is dying and he’s long since lost the heat from digging up the old corpse. The cold night air has him shivering and he misses the last sun light that kept him warm. He flexes and stretches out his stiff muscles, casts one glance down in the casket, ensuring no remains are still… remaining, before he picks up the shovel to fill in the hole again.

It’s slow, laborious work and he is starting to feel his age. He’s lucky the boys are finally growing up big enough for him to bring them along. Dean is putting on some solid muscle and he would have this grave filled in half the time it’s going to take John. He’s going to have to start considering the time span soon, or one day he’ll stand digging when the priest comes up to hold morning mass.

He scoffs just imagining the look on some poor vicar seeing him, face sweaty and clothes covered in graveyard dirt.

Once the job’s done, he packs up his things; shovel, salt, gasoline, shotgun, and sets off toward the parking lot. His shirt is soaked through and pulls a long drag from his water bottle before digging out his phone. Bulky and usually in the way, Pastor Jim had convinced him to get one in case his sons need to reach him when he is away. He’s still fiddling with it when it starts ringing.

“This is Winchester”, he says in the receiver.

There is some rustling on the other end and then Dean’s tinny voice comes through. “Dad? Dad, I’ve been trying to reach you…”

“What’s the status?” John demands, hearing the distress in Dean’s voice.

“It’s Sam, sir. He’s been picked up by the Child Protective Services. He’s- We’re not allowed to talk to him.”

John feels his heart drop to somewhere in the vicinity of his feet.

“What happened?”

“They wouldn’t tell me. They kept trying to call you, asking me where you were. I said you were away on business, always do, said you’d be back soon. They waited for two hours before they left. Said they’d be in touch. I asked where they’d taken Sammy and they just said he would be okay, don’t worry about it but, Dad, I don’t- He’s just… I can’t-“

Deans’ voice is growing more frenetic by the second. With the skinwalker attack, blood loss, and almost turning into a monster, and now this... It has got to be a lot. Dean’s a worrier, John has always known, but the fact that he’s beyond trying to hide it means John has to get home, now.

“I’ll be there.” He’s just about to hang up when Dean says something else. “What’s that?”

“We’ll get him back, right?” Dean’s voice is barely above a whisper.

“Hang in there, son”, he grunts out and slams the door closed, revving up the engine and taking off. He’s bone tired, hungry and cold. There’s an 18 hour trip ahead of him. But he’ll protect his sons.

 

~*~

 

“Would you like a cup of hot chocolate before bedtime, Sam?” Mrs. Davidson asks and Sam pulls away his concentration from the book he’s currently trying to glean some meaning from.

Mrs. Davidson is still dressed for work.

“It’s all right, I’ve made some for myself as well”, Mrs. Davidson says and puts a cup down beside him.

He tries to recall if he ever got hot chocolate from Dad but comes up with a blank. Slowly, he picks it up and takes a careful sip. It’s hot and he burns his tongue a little but the sweet mix of cocoa and milk and sugar and cream more than makes up for the sting.

“It’s a little hot still, watch your tongue”, Mrs. Davidson says as she sits down in the armchair next to the couch Sam is sitting in.

Sam obediently blows on the drink before sipping again, letting the hot liquid wash over his taste buds. It’s heavenly.

He looks at Mrs. Davidson who’s looking out the window at the garden. Sam has never had a garden. The motels are usually surrounded by parking lots and forests and the house they’re renting now has a lawn that hasn’t been mowed in a long time and Sam’s pretty sure that doesn’t count.

“I love gardening”, Mrs. Davison says as if she can read his mind. “I used to spend hours out there. I’ve lived in this house long enough that most of what you see I’ve planted myself.” She sounds a bit forlorn.

“Why don’t you anymore?” Sam asks, because he can see from the wild bushes and weeds taking over the flower beds that it hasn’t been cared for in a while.

“Dislocated my knee a couple of years ago, it hasn’t been right since. Now I hire the Griersons’ son to keep it presentable but his fingers are as green as I’m young and pretty. Video games and hanging out by the pizzeria downtown is all he and the other youngsters on the street have time for anymore”, she explains with a sigh and takes a sip of her cocoa.

Sam feels unexpectedly sad at the neglected garden and Mrs. Davidson’s obvious remaining love for it. It’s such a simple wish and so obtainable and yet clearly Mrs. Davidson has given up on her poor plants.

“I’ll help you, if you want”, Sam offers before he can really stop it.

Mrs. Davidson turns to him in surprise, studies him and then smiles. “You’re very sweet, Sam. I’d appreciate it.”

“I don’t know a thing about gardening but if you tell me what to do, it shouldn’t be a problem”, he goes on and really, what is he saying? He’s not going to stay here long enough for his contribution to make a difference.

“All right, we’ll make some time this weekend; what do you think?” and Sam nods.

“Sure thing, Mrs. Davidson.”

“You can call me Fiona, just as long as we’re at home. I get enough of my last name in school.”

Sam hesitates because his dad raised him well and calling an adult by their first name… It seems impolite, but surely ignoring the request would be worse. So he smiles. “Fiona, then.”

A small silence settles between them but it’s comfortable and Sam looks back down on the reading he’s trying to get done, but he has lost his place and he’s suddenly very tired. His dad would hash him out for slacking but Dad’s not here and Sam doesn’t know what to do with the mixed feelings he has about that. He closes the book and takes a gulp of the now perfectly tempered chocolate.

“So, what about you, Sam? Got any interests?”

It doesn’t feel like a trick question, or a way to make him reveal something about himself. It feels like a dialogue, normal conversation, but Sam has grown up watching what he says to outsiders.

“I like reading”, he says and hides behind his mug. It’s true, mostly. He does like reading and while most would take that as an indication that what he’s reading is an example of what he likes, well, that’s their misconception and it has got nothing to do with him.

“What are you reading right now? It looks pretty heavy”, Mrs. Davidson comments.

“Just brushing up on my Latin”, he says and is for once relieved that most people can’t read the dead language and won’t be able to question why he has chosen demonic behavior and exorcisms to ‘practice’ on.

“That’s, uh, that’s quite impressive for someone your age. Did you take Latin as an electable at your old school?”

“I don’t think they offer it at many schools, especially small ones that I’ve been going to. We’ve got this family friend, though, Uncle Bobby. He’s the best ever and he teaches me every time we visit. He knows so many languages, you wouldn’t believe”, Sam explains.

He knows he’s gushing by the amused smile on Mrs. Davidson’s face and tries to dial it back.

“Is he a language professor?” she enquires and Sam bites his lip.

“He owns a salvage yard”, Sam explains and knows that it makes no sense at all.

Mrs. Davidson looks surprised but doesn’t question him and he ignores the churning feeling in his gut. “And you spend a lot of time there?”

It’s turning into a questioning again and Sam looks at his book, wishes he just kept reading and he wouldn’t be in this situation, trying to explain the phenomenon that is language proficient drunkards and why he’s spending any time in such a place.

“We go there in the summers sometimes, when we don’t have school and Dad has to work”, Sam says. _He leaves us there for weeks so he can be take care of monsters without having to worry about leaving us alone for too long, or social services getting involved. We get to stay in one place for more than a couple of weeks and it’s all pretty wonderful except then Dad will show up again and drag us away to go hunt a poltergeist somewhere because he thinks Uncle Bobby’s spoiling us. It’s the best and worst time of the year because I know it never lasts and it’s the hardest to go back to living the Life when I’ve had a glimpse at normal._ “It’s pretty cool.”

Mrs. Davidson studies his face with eyes that dig into him and he squirms in his seat. Finally, “That sounds nice. Do you help out with the cars?” she asks and Sam almost scoffs.

Uncle Bobby asks him every time if he wants to have a look at the inside of an engine, learn the difference between an Audi 80 and a Volkswagen Passat and finally make his own project of the old Opel Manta that’s been standing untouched for several years now. Sam doesn’t think he’ll ever have the burning passion Dean has for cars, though.

He has seen the way Dean’s shoulders relax when he’s standing bent under the hood, changing oil or fixing up the air filter, and the proud way he smiles when he turns the ignition and the car they all thought was done for purrs to life. His own hands grow the size of melons whenever he tries to tweak the alternator and he could live with never having Dean mock him for mixing up the brake fluid and the oil tank again. Uncle Bobby did promise to teach him to drive this year, however, and Sam can’t help the big grin that threatens to break out across his face every time he thinks about it.

“No, I’m not much for cars. Dean loves ‘em, though. Uncle Bobby’s teaching him everything. He’d probably become a mechanic if it wasn’t for-.” He cuts himself off but Mrs. Davidson’s eyes narrow, hearing the censoring.

“What does Dean want to become when he grows up, Sam?” she asks gently.

“He’ll-, we’ll both continue the family business”, Sam says and grips the mug tightly to stop the shaking in his hands.

“What exactly does your father-“, Mrs. Davidson starts but Sam can’t.

“I’m sorry, Mrs. Davids-, Fiona, but I’m very tired. Do you think I could go to bed early?”

She looks startled but collects herself and nods. “Yeah, yes, of course. I’ve set the guestroom up for you.” She stands up, takes his mug to dispose of in the kitchen.  “It used to be my son’s and I haven’t had the heart to clean out all of his stuff after he moved out”, she goes on and leads them out to the hallway. “There might still be some things he left behind. I’ll pack them up if they bother you but otherwise you can just ignore them. Or use them, if you find something you like”, she chats and shows him to the room.

Sam takes a peek inside. Blue painted walls almost hidden behind the posters of girls, cars and rock bands. A large bed by the wall, bedsheets clean and inviting, as Mrs. Davidson promised. A desk full of knick-knacks, including a harmonica, comic books, a stereo system and a stack of CDs. The closet in the corner is covered in stickers of cartoon figures smiling up at him from a younger age that the son probably lived to regret, Sam guesses from the ripped and scuffed quality.

“I should have got rid of his things, I guess, repainted and furnished it like an appropriate guest room, but he’s living so far away and sometimes I just want to pretend. You know what I mean?” Mrs. Davidson goes on and smiles self-consciously.

Sam has no idea but he nods anyway because he can’t really stand the second-hand embarrassment.

“It’s great”, he ensures her and picks up a small porcelain dog with its tongue lolled out and an eye patch making it look like a hysterical pirate dog.

“All right”, Mrs. Davidson sounds relieved. “You get yourself ready. The bathroom’s right out here to the left. If you need a towel, there should be one in the closet in the bottom drawer. Put your dirty clothes in the hamper, I’ll wash them for you tomorrow.” She gestures towards the places as she speaks and Sam nods along. “I’ll be upstairs if you need me. Otherwise I’ll wake you up at seven tomorrow and we’ll drive to school together.” She waits for him to say anything, then she smiles slowly. “I know it’s different, Sam, but it’s just for a little while and I’ll do the best I can to make this work. Goodnight, sweetie.”

Then she’s gone and Sam breathes out slowly. Mrs. Davidson’s mothering is… disconcerting.

He looks around one more time. The room is lived-in; things spread out that speaks of life, friends and hobbies and Sam decides he hates it. It’s not his things, not his life and he’ll never have this. He’s not even allowed to _want_ this.

He changes into his pajamas, brushes his teeth and readies his clothes for tomorrow, all the while carefully listening for Mrs. Davidson. He can hear her bustling around, washing up after dinner, packing her briefcase, loading the washing machine. It’s when she steps in the bathroom and the water from the shower is turned on that Sam quietly steps out from his borrowed room and picks up the phone in the hallway. He is talking to Dean, no matter what they say is advised or recommended or ordered. His hands are sweating when he dials.

“Yeah, ‘llo?” answers Dean when Sam finally manages to press the numbers with shaking fingers.

“Dean”, he says and has to hold back a choke.

He feels the anxiety that’s been building since early this morning ease out of him.

“ _Sam?_ ” Dean answers and his entire voice changes, warms and turns worried in a heartbeat. “Sammy, are you okay?”

He breathes slowly. If he closes his eyes he can pretend Dean’s standing right next to him. “Yeah, I’m fine. I’m staying with Mrs. Davidson.”

“Your teacher?” Dean asks, a surprised tilt to his voice.

“Yeah”, Sam smiles, ridiculously glad Dean knows his teacher’s name. Tears start running down his cheeks but he can’t help it. He wipes them away but they keep coming. He hasn’t cried this much in _years_ , he thinks, frustrated.

“What happened?”

“They picked me off from school after first class. I think the bandages was a bit too much to hope for them to turn a blind eye against”, he says sarcastically.

“I s’ppose”, Dean mutters but he doesn’t sound like he understands and worry knots up Sam’s stomach again. “Listen, Sam, you gotta be careful what you say, okay? You can’t tell ‘em what we do…”

“I’m not an idiot, Dean”, he spits at him.

“Yeah, okay, relax, Sammy. I’m just saying. They’ll pretend to be nice, be your friend, ask all these questions that don’t mean nothing and then without knowing they’ll have evidence to take you away from us.”

They already asked, and they weren’t subtle about it, Sam thinks but doesn’t say because he doesn’t want to admit he might have revealed more than he intended to.

“I’ll be careful.”

“I know you will. And listen, Sam, we’ll get you out of there, okay. Don’t worry, we’ll get you back”, Dean says reassuringly and Sam glares at the wall because it’s easier than saying he’s going to worry until he feels Dean’s arms wrapped around him again and the homey smell of the Impala’s leather holster surrounds him as they drive away from Louisville forever.

“Where’s Dad?” he asks instead.

There is a silence on the other end that tells Sam everything he needs to know.

“He’s on a hunt? Now? Doesn’t he get that there’s gonna be a hearing and if he misses that-“

“Calm down! Dad’s gonna be there, okay? He took it before he heard and he’s on his way back. He’ll be there.”

Sam doesn’t know what to feel about the fact that his dad took a case while he was still in school, left without saying anything. Left, not knowing if this would be the last time they every saw each other. He always suspected Dad’s mind was too occupied with revenge and hunting to care about his sons, but this…

“Okay.” He doesn’t even believe himself.

“Sammy…” Dean says pleadingly.

“It’s fine. I get it. His job is important. I just hope he’s on time, ‘s all.”

“He will be. We’ll get you back.”

“I gotta go, she’ll be out of the shower soon and I’m not supposed to call you.”

“You keep in touch, Sammy, you hear me? I gotta know you’re okay. I’ll come by school and we’ll talk, all right?”

Sam’s heart swells a little bit thinking about Dean sneaking in on the school grounds to see his kid brother. He tries to suppress the treacherous smile but eventually he hums an agreement and hangs up, feeling lighter.

He sneaks back into his room, closes the door and goes for his bag. He’ll just salt the openings and then be off to bed, he thinks, listening to the still going shower. After talking to Dean he feels bone tired, like all the day’s worries finally caught up to him. When he goes to bed he’ll sleep like the dead and tomorrow will be better.

 

 

Half an hour later he’s still lying awake, tongue brushing carefully over a loose tooth. He’s staring at the wall and for the first time in a long time he thinks about Sully. Sam knows he was imaginary but if he hadn’t felt real during those long hours he was left alone before he got to come along on the hunts, Sam doesn’t know what would.

He has been sleeping alone for weeks now, both at the hospital and in his own room at the house, but now is the first time he feels truly lonely and a little part of him wishes he could have Sully back. He remembers the bouncy man with colorful clothes and ever cheerful smile with endless ideas of mischief they could occupy themselves with. His kind eyes that never judged him when Sam admitted his most shameful failings.

_Ever think about running away?_

He didn’t mind when Sam couldn’t keep up with the training, and happily helped Sam raid the cookie section at the fill-up joints even when Dean teased him about being chubby. It was the fact that Sully didn’t judge him, more than anything, that helped Sam grow out of it.

He can run just as far and fast as Dean can, now. There is no baby fat left around his chin, his stomach is a flat board and if he leans back far enough he can even see the muscles. He can sleep alone and Dad trusts him to go along on hunts and he just proved he can kill a monster on his own.

No, he doesn’t need Sully anymore. Sam throws one last thankful thought to his childhood friend and closes his eyes. The last thing he sees is the poster of Rio, the manager of Superbomb Sanchez, hanging on the wall across the room. Before he falls asleep he thinks Mrs. Davidson’s son must be pretty cool.

 

~*~

 

It’s half past six when Fiona’s alarm clock rings. It’s a shrill sound and she’s been meaning to get it replaced for years now but it always seems to slip her mind whenever she’s at the store.

Slamming the snooze button she takes a few seconds to wonder why she set the clock so early. She ransacks her mind, going through lesson plans she might be behind on, tests she’s supposed to hand back soon and parent-teacher conferences she should have prepared, but she comes up empty. Until last night’s events rush back to her. _Sam._

She turns off the darn clock when it shrilly reminds her five minutes have passed, and gets up. Clothes put out and bag packed already, it’s fast job to be ready and downstairs. She won’t wake Sam up just yet, she thinks, and readies breakfast. Coffee brewing, eggs frying, fruit cut, she ponders what kind of home-life Sam has. Does his father ever cook him breakfast? Does Sam do it himself? Does he eat it at all?

She’s still thinking about it when she carefully opens the door to his bedroom and steps inside. Sam is sprawled on the bed with arms flung over his head and legs twisted up in the sheets. She can only see a tuft of his hair sticking up from under the pillow and she thinks of all the mornings she came in to wake up Justin. She has to call him soon, it’s been too long. No matter how much he whines that she’s the most overprotective mother of all time.

“Sam”, she says quietly and puts a gentle hand on his shoulder.

It happens in the space between one heartbeat and the next. The muscles under her hand coil up, a hand rises up to grip her wrist, twisting it backwards painfully, and she gasps. The sleeping boy on the bed is on his knees, ready to pounce. His other hand is at her throat, not touching but clearly a threat, even as she avoids looking down. Eyes she would expect to be heavy with sleep are studying her intensely without any trace of drowsiness.

There is a stalemate where nobody moves. Fiona is trying to get her heart to stop its attempt at leaping out of her chest, reasoning it really does more good inside her body than outside. Sam appears to be assessing the situation.

“Sorry”, he says and releases her wrist.

It’s only when he sits back down on the bed that she notices the knife that he had pressed against her throat. He drops it by his side and Fiona has a second to marvel at where he even found such a large knife, and where he hid it before reason kicks back in.

“Sam, give me the knife”, she says and thanks the Lord her voice doesn’t betray her fear.

He looks down on the knife, almost surprised to see it there. He picks it up, holding it in both his hands and just letting it rest there while fingering the edge. Seeing his small fingers so close to such a dangerous tool makes her throat constrict. He looks tired and appears to just revert back to almost asleep once he decides there is no threat to neutralize. She carefully holds out her hand for the knife. He looks up at her then and she meets his gaze steadily.

“You’re not allowed a knife in this house, Sam. Only if you’re helping me cook and I can supervise. Now hand it to me so I can put it away.”

His eyes flash and Fiona has time to think he will fight her on this, but then he finally puts it in her outstretched hand, looking resigned.

“Don’t lose it”, he mutters before crawling out of bed and heading to the bathroom.

 

 

It’s not until they’re both dressed and ready to head out to the car when Fiona notices the fine trail of coarse white powder, either salt or sugar, below the doorsill. She crouches down to get a closer look and is just about to stick a finger out to test it. She’ll get an ant infestation if there’s sugar left out like this.

“No! Don’t touch that”, Sam calls and she pauses.

“What is it, Sam?” she asks and remains very still.

Sam is clearly uncomfortable with the question, given his silence.

“Sam?”

“It’s salt, all right? I put salt around your doors and windows. It’s just a precaution but please don’t break the line.”

He stuffs his hands in his pockets and scrapes the floor with one of his oversized sneakers. He looks so much like a child that has been misbehaving she’s not quite sure how to react. Whenever Justin did mischief there was usually a call from someone’s parent, or the principal, or one memorable time, the deputy. Salting the entrances isn’t quite on par with that.

“All right, I won’t touch it. For now. But we’ll talk about this tonight.”

She puts on her stern face but Sam looks so relieved she doesn’t think she really managed it. She holds the door open for him and then they’re off to school.

Even with a crooked start, this has gone better than she hoped for. No blood was shed and they’ve established some solid ground rules, she thinks and avoids touching her throat where the phantom whisper of a knife’s edge is tingling.

 

~*~

 

It’s almost four in the afternoon by the time John rolls the Impala up on the driveway. His eyes are red rimmed and his stomach burns after the numerous cups of coffee he has been drinking to keep awake for the long drive. He cuts the engine and leans his head back to rest for just a second, closing his eyes. Dean will be inside, worried and fretting, Sam will be gone somewhere, taken by the CPS and John can’t even lift his arms, his body too heavy.

He likes to think that if he had known this fateful day would be the one the authorities caught up and took his son away from him, he would have stayed home to hear about it from the people responsible as soon as they showed up at his door. Then he thinks about the Brooks family who didn’t lose their youngest because he’d shown up in time and he thinks he made the right call.

For a brief confused moment Mary is sitting next to him, stroking his cheek. Her smile is tight and her eyes worried but she understands. She’s not here because there was no one there for them to ward off the demon, to tell them to paint devil’s traps or chant exorcisms in Latin. Besides, he’s not going to _lose_ Sam. He’ll speak to the people involved, they’ll see their mistake and soon they’ll be on the road again.

He grunts and wrenches the door open, hauls himself out and walks up to the house. He has barely reached the door until it’s flung open and Dean meets him. It takes John a moment to focus his eyes but when he manages, he does a double take.

Dean is pale and he has deep shadows underneath his eyes. Looking at him, you’d think he’s the one who spent almost a full day behind the wheel crossing state lines. He has clearly been crying, John thinks, taking in the bloodshot eyes and puffy face. He’s dressed in days old shirt and jeans, smelling, well, not quite as bad as John, but bad enough.

“Dad”, Dean says with a whining quality that John has never heard in Dean’s voice before.

“The child protective services been by?” he asks and pushes past Dean, dropping his bag right by the door in the hallway.

The place has been kept in order, maybe cleaned up a bit, which John approves of. He glances at Dean who hasn’t answered as he opens the fridge to grab a beer. There are none. He grabs a bottle of water instead.

“Yessir”, Dean eventually says, pulling himself together. “Came by yesterday before noon, asking for you, like I told you on the phone. Said they were coming by with Sam later to collect his things, so I cleaned up a bit, ditched the liquor and stuff. Took the weapons with me so they wouldn’t be found…”

He trails off and John sits down on a chair by the kitchen table, gestures for Dean to have a seat opposite. He waits until he has sat down and then asks: “Did they find anything?”

“I wasn’t allowed to be here”, Dean grumbles.

_No, of course not,_ John thinks and takes a pull on the cold water. John would smile at the petulance if the situation wasn’t so serious. He waves at Dean to go on.

“His stuff’s gone, he took everything. I left a knife at the bottom of his duffel, you know, just in case something happens. They must not be too thorough because that’s gone, too.” He sounds pleased. “Or they took it”, he adds and a frown crosses his brow.

“Nothing illegal about owning a knife”, John tells him but wonders what they would make of it. Nothing good, he supposes and wishes Dean hadn’t been quite so exhaustive in his purge of the alcohol in the house.

“No, but I don’t think twelve year olds are supposed to have them.”

“They should. Every mother would provide the biggest hunting knife they could get their hands on if they knew what’s out there”, John says, eyeing a stain on the table and wondering if the surface would make due as a pillow. “Or just not let them out…” The table’s looking softer by the second.

“They’ll be back today, said they’d need to talk to you”, Dean says and lets the statement hang there for a while. “Dad, what’s going to happen? Now, with Sammy and everything?”

John contemplates the dark paths his mind takes him. He’s not the best father, even when he’s around and sober, but he’s pretty sure he’s better at protecting them than any peachy perfect family the CPS could provide for them. Especially with what he hass been finding out about Sam.

“I’ll talk to the people who were here, get a damn lawyer if I have to, and then we’re gonna get Sam back. You just keep your head down and stay calm”, John says as he heaves himself out of the chair and heads to his room. “If they call or come by, you wake me up right away, son”, he orders and goes to crash for a couple of hours, he hopes.

 

~*~

 

Being back in school after having been picked up by CPS is as much of a nightmare as you might expect.

Sam dully ignores the stares that follow him around, sits alone at his usual table during lunch break and doesn’t answer when a few brave students come up to enquire about his home situation. He wishes Dean would come today but it’s unlikely. He can’t help staring out at the parking lot during classes, though, and sigh in disappointment when he sees no sign of the Impala.

It’s the class before the last when one kid comes up to his table, right before they’re about to begin. Sam’s about to say something shrewd to get him to leave when he notices it’s Amir. He has seen him in class, always sitting in the back, never speaking but they shared a commiserating smile when Mr. Olson gave them an extended deadline on the English essay because so few had handed in on time.

He gives Amir a questioning look because he’s not going to be a dick unless Amir turns out to be just as much of a vulture as the rest of them. Amir is standing awkwardly by his desk, twisting the cuffs of his shirt in pitiful knots and appears to be fighting for words. Sam’s feels a surprising twist of sympathy for the guy.

“Hey, Amir”, he says and Amir looks up at him with a tentative smile.

“Hey… Sam. I, uh, I heard what happened with your, um, your family… Well, I heard what’s going through the rumor mill-“

Sam feels his jaw clench because it figures. “Look, I get that it’s really exiting-“

“No!” Amir exclaims, possibly louder than he intended because he blushes furiously. “No, I mean I get that the others have probably been hassling you all day, and I just wanted to say ‘I get it’.”

Sam raises an eyebrow because he seriously doubts that but Amir struggles on.

“I was placed in a home three years ago when my old teacher reported it. I showed up to school with a black eye. My dad, he used to drink a lot and…”

Sam feels a dawning horror. This is so much worse. He has been so angry at everyone for butting in but here Amir is, putting his trust in _Sam_ of all people, letting him know he’s not alone in his situation, despite it not even being _real_. To Amir this is his reality, and he was saved because someone decided to butt in. Sam feels like a complete tool.

“I’m so sorry, Amir”, he says and can’t believe how useless his words are.

Amir smiles but it doesn’t look very happy. “I’m not telling you for sympathy. I’m saying the situation sucks and if you ever need someone to talk to, you should know I’m here.”

He’s about to walk away so Sam stands up and puts a hand on his shoulder. Amir stiffens and Sam takes it back quickly.

“I appreciate it”, he says and tries to emphasize how much he means that. “Really, I-, thanks.”

Amir smiles in relief and walks back to his table and Sam sits down with something warm settling in his stomach.

 

~*~

 

The chill of the December air has John blowing on his hands while rubbing them against each other in an attempt to keep the warmth. It’s a losing battle and he hurries over to the car. It won’t be warmer but when he starts driving the air will heat up. It’s not a long drive home anyways. Dean will be waiting for him. He can already see his expectant face, worry lines around his eyes. He’ll ask about the interview and John will have to come up with something to say.

_“We’re only thinking about what’s best for your son, Mr. Winchester.”_

_“If you have nothing to hide then let us investigate and you can have him back.”_

_“You need to calm down, Mr. Winchester!”_

_“He needs to feel safe and with the way you’re acting I don’t think you can provide an environment that’s appropriate for a twelve year old.”_

He grits his teeth and turns the key in the ignition. The car roars to life and he takes a moment to appreciate the raw power he can feel in her vibrations. It’s not quite the Impala’s horse power but he’s proud of her none the less. Picked her out with care.

_Safe_ , he thinks bitterly. His family will never be safe, and not because of him but because of the yellow-eyed demon who’s targeting his family. He needs to pick up the hunting, catch it before _it_ catches _them_. He doesn’t want to imagine what would happen if it strikes while Sam is under the care of a civilian. He’s tried to teach his sons to take care of themselves, but Sam is still so small.

Every time he shuts his eyes he sees the skinwalker attacking his boy, and Sam disappearing under the body of the massive dog. He can still taste the iron on his tongue from sucking out the poison, and he fights the nausea every time.

His hands are shaking on the steering wheel and he almost misses the truck that comes from the left in a flash. He slams his foot on the break and listens to the loud horn of the driver as it passes by him. He breathes out a shaky breath and pulls over.

He’s staring blankly at the ground in front of the car through the windshield. The irony of losing his life in a car crash when he has fought werewolves and ghosts is not lost on him. He chuckles darkly to himself and wipes a hand over his face. He shaved so it’s not as scratchy as he’s used to. He doesn’t think it made a difference. The people he talked to had looked serious in their suits and while he’s used to dealing with the police, federal agents and detectives alike, he has never felt so put on the spot.

He’s building up to a headache and presses his thumb and index finger to the bridge of his nose, trying to veer it off.

He startles when the sharp ring tone of his phone breaks his reverie and he scrambles to get at it.

“This is Winchester”, he says, like always.

“Hey, John, it’s Jim. How’s it going?”

“Murphy! Still alive, if that’s what you’re asking. What can I do for you?”

“Hey, I can call even when no one’s life is at stake!” says Pastor Jim, going for jovial but John can hear the strain in his voice.

“Yeah, and you do as often as I get my chest waxed. What’s up?” He’s worried, because while he considers Pastor Jim a dear friend it’s true he doesn’t call unless it’s important.

“It’s, well… I think I’ve found something and I promised to call if I did, so-“

“Spit it out then”, John says roughly and tries to reign in his anticipation but his chest tightens despite his best efforts.

“I’ve got reason to believe there’s demon activity down in Tennessee. Electrical storms, cattle mutilation, the lot.”

John breathes very slowly, in and out. He needs to be here for the hearing in a couple of weeks. He couldn’t take Dean and leave because that would be proof of abandonment and he’d never see Sam again. He can’t go. But he can’t _not_ go, either. It’s the biggest lead he has had in months.

“I’ve been keeping track of the papers from there and people have been saying all kinds of crazy things. John, I’m not saying this is it, but I’ll be damned if I don’t tell you this might be what you’ve been looking for-“, Pastor Jim goes on and that’s all John really needs to hear.

“I’ll go. Give me an address and I’ll be there in two days.” He thinks of Dean who’ll expect an explanation, and the equipment he needs to pick up. “Maybe three.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Note that this is fiction and that procedure for the CPS is probably nothing like this.


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks again to my wonderful beta, Momo, who despite a complete lack of interest in supernatural, helped me put this thing together. She's absolutely amazing! All remaining mistakes are my own.
> 
> Only one more chapter to go! When this is done, I'll hopefully be able to start posting my next project, tentatively called 'Come to Leave Me', about time traveling Sam :)

Lunch break is almost over by the time Sam sees the Impala drive into the school parking lot. He parks right by the gates and doesn’t step out of the car so Sam takes a quick look around and jogs up to him. Casually. He can totally jog casually.

He’s panting and his heart is almost leaping out of his chest by the time he reaches the end of the school grounds. He knocks carefully on the window to the driver’s side and Dean steps out. Sam has trouble breathing for a completely different reason.

He looks good. Maybe a little tired, but he’s smiling down at Sam and Sam feels a year’s worth of worry run off him. He patiently endures the patting of his hair and he absolutely doesn’t have to swallow a grin when Dean teases him and says that he must have shrunk instead of grown.

“So what’s up, Sammy? How’s the stitches?”

Typical Dean to ask about the physical. No chick-flick moments. He tongues the loose tooth at the back of his mouth and considers.

“Stitches are fine, but I’ve got a loose tooth… I don’t know if it happened in the fight or if it’s just a baby tooth.”

Dean looks surprised for a second. “Well, which one is it?” he asks and so Sam shows him.

He supposes it should feel weird to have someone scrutinizing the inside of your mouth but seeing as it’s Dean it doesn’t even register. At this point it feels like he could ask to look at Sam’s intestines and Sam would make the cut himself.

“Yep, it’s a baby tooth”, Dean declares and straightens back up.

“How can you tell?” Sam asks dubiously.

“I’ve watched you lose every one of your baby teeth, and this isn’t one of ‘em, so it’s gotta go”, he answers and grins at Sam’s flummoxed expression.

“You keep track of all the teeth I’ve lost?”

Dean looks uncomfortable and clears his throat. “Yeah, well, you whine about them so much it’s hard not to”, he deflects and punches Sam lightly in the arm.

“Freak”, Sam says and smiles.

Dean smiles back, squeezes his side and asks if he has been keeping with the workout regimen.

“It’s kinda hard with trying to present Mrs. Davidson with this picture of a balanced, normal kid whose family wouldn’t dream of hurting him.”

He regrets the words as soon as they’re out of his mouth because Dean’s smile drops and he looks out over the yard with a pained expression.

“Yeah, I’m sorry this is taking so long, Sammy. We’re working on it”, Dean says and scrubs the back of his head, uneasy.

While Sam had been worried, he had been sure his dad and Dean were doing everything they could to get him back. Seeing Dean standing there, unable to meet his eyes, he experiences a sinking feeling in his stomach.

“Dean”, he says in a low voice.

“Listen, Sammy, you’re being careful, right? Not telling that Davidson anything, but also, you know, keeping up with protection procedure?”

Sam doesn’t answer, waits for Dean’s eyes to get back to him and continues staring silently until Dean sort of slopes.

“He’s found a hunt.” There’s no need to specify which _he_ Dean’s talking about. He looks across the parking lot, scanning for potential eavesdroppers. “Thinks it’s a werewolf. A few towns over. He gathered he’ll be gone maybe a week what with the full moon coming up.”

Sam finds he can’t really keep looking at Dean, not with his green eyes looking so sad, like he’s the one who has betrayed Sam, like he’s the one who doesn’t want to fight to get him back. So he stares at the ground instead. Old pavement with cracks running between the two of them, pebbles that never get cleaned up littering up the lot. He pushes them away from under his feet, creates a small area where he can stand without them pushing up into the soles of his shoes, a little island isolated from the rest of the area.

“It’s fine”, he mutters when his throat finally stops acting like a desert.

“It’s not, but it’s gonna be. He’ll be back before the hearing and everything’s gonna work itself out.”

Sam can’t decide if Dean’s trying to convince Sam or himself. It doesn’t look like he’s doing a good job either way.

“Sure”, he says. “Look, I gotta go. Lunch break’s almost over and I have class with Mrs. Davidson after this, so she’ll know something’s up if I come in late.”

He turns to leave but Dean puts a hand on his shoulder and Sam almost breaks.

“Sammy….”

“It’s Sam, okay? And I said it’s fine.”

“It’s obviously not-“

“No, it really is”, Sam says and turns back to him. “I get it, Dad’s more interested in hunting down some werewolf than getting his own son back from the CPS. It’s fine because it’s not the son he wants anyway. Not the one who’s actually helpful during hunts and who follows his orders and completes his stupid tests. It’s not like it matters if he loses _me_ , right? Because he’ll still have _you_!”

He realizes he’s screaming the last words. Somewhere along the way, Dean’s hand has fallen off his shoulder and that shouldn’t hurt as much as it does. He flinches back and turns back around to run back into school. But not before he sees Dean’s eyes shutter with hurt. Not before he sees his face shut down completely.

He half expects Dean to call him back. He doesn’t stop running until he’s inside the school again and he realizes that Dean can’t come after him. If someone sees him here, the planned visit will be postponed even further and Dean won’t risk that. He’s apparently the only one who cares about the parameters the CPS has put up. He’s good at those; orders, restrictions, knowing what to do and when. Of course he doesn’t follow Sam.

Sam smashes his fist into the nearest locker he passes and for a second he feels nothing but satisfaction when the metal yields to his fist, but when the pain registers in his hand he screams and rams it back again, and then the other one for good measure. The pain searing through his hands feels appropriate even if it doesn’t detract from the frustration he feels welling up in his chest.

When he has inflicted a satisfactory amount of damage to the locker, he collapses against it; the cold metal is digging into his cheek and forehead and oh, that’s his blood. He bangs his head against it a couple of times but most of his impulse anger has drained from him.

He’s breathing heavily and it takes a moment to realize that a group of students has gathered around him in a wide circle. He stares at them, meets their confused, fearful gazes and turns and slowly straightens up. Some take a few precautionary steps back and he feels like laughing in their faces. He might start crying if he does, though, so instead he goes back out the door before someone calls a teacher. The crowd separates as he passes them and he feels powerful. Powerful in this small part of his life where everything is chaos and he’s completely powerless.

He doesn’t stop walking until he’s a couple of miles away and he has no idea where he is. He only remembers he forgot his backpack when he thinks of reaching for his water bottle. He has run out of anger so he just kicks a fir cone, feeling _something_ should know that this is not going like he planned.

He didn’t think it was possible to get lost in such a small town but looking around at the unfamiliar houses he thinks he has managed to fail at yet another thing. He considers going back but school won’t have let out yet and he doesn’t feel like dealing with curious eyes or angry adults just yet. He doesn’t want to know if this ruined all his chances at a meeting with Dad.

Down the road he glimpses the steeple from one of the town’s many churches and he sets off to it determinedly.

 

~*~

 

It’s later that night when they sit down in the living room, each with a cup of hot chocolate again, on either side of the couch. It’s raining outside in a typical depressing fashion, one they both got showered with on the way in. While they’ve dried off it still feels chilly so Fiona took the opportunity to light some of the candles she bought for Christmas. Sam takes a sip of his drink and shivers. He has his hand wrapped in ice.

“So, Sam, tell me what happened today”, Fiona urges and looks at him steadily.

“’s nothing”, he says, a defensive curl to his shoulders.

“Unless the sight of our ugly school lockers personally offends you, I’d say there was something going on. I’d like you to tell me about it.”

Sam bites his lip, stares out into the kitchen, shrugs and takes another sip.

“All right. What about in the church? The reverend said you sat and prayed for almost an hour before I got there. Do you often go to church? Does your father take you?”

Sam snorts so Fiona guesses that is a ‘no’.

“Would you like me to take you from now on? I haven’t really been that active since my, well, for a while, but if you’d like, we could go on Sunday.”

Sam looks stricken and she takes it as a positive sign.

“It’s all right, you know. To have different faith than your father. Ms. Huber told me your dad believes in the old ways, right? Purification and things like that. I’ve got to admit I’m not familiar with it, but if there’s something you want to do, that’s fine. Going to church is fine, too. You just need to tell me.”

“It’s all the same, you know”, Sam says so quietly Fiona has to strain her ears to hear. “I wouldn’t say Dad’s a man of faith but the purification, the salt and holy water – it all comes from Christianity.”

“I didn’t know that”, Fiona admits. Then, “wait, salt, you said the salt lines were for protection. Is that something your father taught you? Is it part of his faith?”

“Yeah, well, I guess you could say that. It keeps the evil out. Most of it, anyways.”

“What kind of evil?”

Sam looks down into his cup as if contemplating the reason for life, an intense look on his face. Dressed in clothes too big, with uncut hair and a body curled up defensively he should look like the child he is, but with those eyes, that serious expression, Fiona can’t help but think he looks older than his years. Then again, that is often the case for children of abuse. It leaves a bitter taste in her mouth.

“Just… evil.”

“Has he ever told you it would come after you?”

He looks up, surprised at that and Fiona resignedly ticks another box in the list of things Ms. Huber told her to look out for.

“It could come after anyone, really. We just know how to prepare. It sometimes makes us a target, I suppose.”

“Sam, I want you to listen carefully to me now, okay? In this house, you are safe. Nothing will come here. No one’s going to hurt you. You need to trust me on this, and to believe this for yourself.”

Sam looks at her quietly for a long time, saying nothing. That odd feeling of looking into the eyes of someone older, comes over her again.

“Yeah, I know”, he says.

She doesn’t believe him, he knows she doesn’t and she knows he knows, but they leave it at that. Together they drink their cocoa in silence. It’s comfortable. Peaceful.

 

~*~

 

“Hi.”

Sam looks up from his homework. He’s stationed himself in the library while waiting for Mrs. Davidson to finish up her last work before she’ll drive them home. It’s nice and quiet in here. Most students have gone home and the afternoon sun is coming in at an angle, softening the light from the lamps into a comfortable orange. It’s soothing and Dean would never stop mocking him if he ever told him. He’s also not thinking about Dean.

By his table Amir is standing, fiddling with his backpack but looking determined. They haven’t really talked since that day Sam came back. He feels a twinge of guilt. Amir really helped him and shared a large part of his life with Sam and Sam hasn’t even bothered to repay him the same curtesy. Not that he could. He can’t really tell his classmate that the reason he has been put in (albeit temporary) foster care is because the authorities mistook his stint with a skinwalker for domestic abuse. He’s not even sure it would make a difference. Or maybe he’d be put in a psychiatric ward rather than a home, but he doubts he would get to go back to his family.

“Hey”, he says. “I didn’t really get a chance to, um, well say thank you, for, y’ know, what you said, last time”, he says and smiles apologetically.

It’s less about having a chance to, and more avoiding it all together but Amir doesn’t appear to bear any grudge.

“No, it’s fine, totally okay. I just, I wanted to ask, well, I saw you here working on the physics homework and was wondering if you wanted to study together. For the test, I mean. If, if you want to?”

Sam casts a glance at his finished physics paper that’s conveniently lying on top of his Latin translation. He slams the book together, pushes it into his bag and opens a new page in his notebook. “Sure!”

Amir looks a bit puzzled but he grins in relief and take a seat opposite Sam. “To tell you the truth, I’ve written a first draft already, but, well, I know you got the highest score on the last test and was thinking we could swap ideas. Or something…”

Sam looks down on his paper in embarrassment and opens up his finished paper again. “Yeah, that’d be great. There’s this thing on question nine, and I don’t know if it’s Ms. Howard, but I don’t even know what they’re _asking_ for!”

They spend almost two hours doing the paper, talking and laughing. By the time Mrs. Davidson shows up to collect him, Sam feels a blossoming of hope he hasn’t felt for a long while. He grins at Amir when they’re packing up their things.

“So this was great, wanna maybe do it again?”

“Yeah, definitely! D’you have time tomorrow?” Amir asks and opens up a neat calendar and start flipping to the right page.

“Actually, I’ve got practice with the football team, but how’s your Thursday? I could use a second opinion on the geography.”

“Sure thing. I’ll see ya, Sam.”

They leave and Mrs. Davidson manages to keep her mouth shut all the way until they reach the parking lot. Sam admires her restraint and tries to hide a grin.

“So Amir and you really seem to click”, she comments offhandedly.

“He’s nice.”

Mrs. Davidson sighs and Sam looks inquiringly at her.

“You’re not even thirteen yet and already you’re a teenager”, she says and unlocks the car.

Sam thinks that’s really unfair and huffs in protest.

“You can ask him over to dinner someday if you want to”, Mrs. Davidson suggests. “I think it’s good that you spend time with your classmates and I know Amir’s a really good kid.”

It sounds incongruent when Mrs. Davidson says _kid_ but Sam understands what she means.

“Yeah, no, I’ll do that. Maybe next week or something.”

“Or this weekend. You don’t have any tests next week that you should be studying for and you should cook while the pan is hot, you know”, she says and Sam ponders the pros and cons of living with your teacher. “Or I could call his parents to see if they’d want to-“.

“Fine! I’ll ask him!” he interrupts quickly and Mrs. Davidson smiles, maybe a little too smugly.

Sam huffs again.

 

~*~

 

Fiona is just about to step into the shower when her cell phone goes off. She almost falls over the slippery floor, she’s so startled. She has had it for almost a year now but most people still call on the landline and she never seems to get used to the darn thing. She carefully wraps herself in her dressing gown and steps out of the bathroom to take it.

“Yes, this is Fiona Davidson.”

“Mrs. Davidson, I hope I’m not interrupting? This is Carla Huber.”

Fiona takes a look around the room, decides to shut the door and sits on her bed to take this. She doesn’t want Sam to overhear if it’s something that should be told with care.

“Yes, no, of course not. It’s good of you to call. How can I help you? Has something happened?”

There is a brief silence on the other end which leaves Fiona with the conclusion that, yes, something has happened, and it isn’t good.

“We had the interview with Mr. Winchester last week, as you know, and we made clear to him we would be in touch with details for the hearing and everything. It’s all standard procedure, you know, and it seemed fine. He was upset, it’s normal, a threat to the family and all, but not overly so, nothing that raises a red flag.”

Ms. Huber goes on in detail and Fiona thinks it’s odd to hear her rambling on like this. She has given the impression of being direct, even short and this babbling explanation is getting under Fiona’s skin.

“Anyway, we’ve tried to reach him and he appears to have taken off.”

Wait, what? “What?”

“There’s no answer on his phone, no one at the house and when we asked the older son, he said he was off on business, same thing he said the first time we tried to get in touch with Mr. Winchester.”

“Well, what if he is?” Fiona asks, feeling they should give the man the benefit of the doubt.

“He missed the hearing. It was supposed to take place this morning. We’ve tried to get a hold of him for two days now. He’s not supposed to leave the state, which he might not have but why leave himself unreachable when the hearing is coming up? I know some people panic, the parent just loses grip of themselves when reality starts settling in, but he didn’t strike me as the nervous type.”

Fiona has to agree. She has only met, or rather spoken to, Mr. Winchester once, but he seemed very composed, in charge of himself. It also doesn’t fit with her theory of where Sam is learning his almost militant conduct.

“So, what do you think is happening?” She almost daren’t ask.

“We’re investigating abandonment as of right now-“

“Really?” Fiona interrupts before she can stop herself and listens chagrinned when Ms. Huber clears her throat in irritation.

“Yes, really, but I’m considering another angle. The oldest son seems very composed given his dad is gone. He was worried the first time, which is normal given his little brother was in trouble, but he seems to almost expect his dad to be gone most of the time.”

“And? If Mr. Winchester does work a business with a lot of traveling involved, isn’t that to be expected? By the way, what does he do, more exactly?”

 “He doesn’t.”

“Pardon me?”

“He doesn’t work. He’s not listed in any company employee register, he hasn’t paid tax in the last twelve years or so and he hasn’t had a stable income or been registered with the authorities in about as long.”

Fiona stares at the painting above her dresser while she lets that sink in. “What does this mean? For Sam and for Mr. Winchester?”

“I’m thinking Mr. Winchester might be running a black business or possibly just dealing with the wrong crowd. Depending on what I can find, the situation changes.” She sounds grave when she says it. “But it doesn’t look like Sam will be going back.”

“What about Dean?”

“We’ll see if we can get him emancipated. It’s the best shot he’s got right now if he wants to avoid bouncing between homes.”

“Any chance they’ll be placed together?”

Fiona holds her breath as she waits. Ms. Huber sounds reluctant when she answers.

“It’s unlikely.”

 

 

Fiona is still reeling with the information when she steps out of her room. She hasn’t decided what she’s going to tell Sam yet, but she feels they should talk. She’s just stepping into the hallway when she hears Sam’s voice, obviously talking to someone. She steps back to listen.

“Yeah, I know. I’m sorry, too. It’s not your fault.”

There is a small silence as Sam waits for a response and Fiona figures out it’s probably Dean on the phone he’s talking to. She knows they’re not supposed to have contact, not with the delicate state the case is in, but given the news she’s about to relay, she feels it might do him some good to speak to his brother for a few minutes.

“He’s not back yet?” Sam asks, voice pitched high. “The full moon was last week! What the hell is he even doing?”

Full moon? Is this some other aspect of their faith that Sam has neglected to tell her about?

“I don’t care!” Sam says and then visibly restrains himself. “That’s not what I mean-“. A brief silence. “But there’s gotta be someone else that can- I _know_ but the hearing was _today_.” Another pause. “Then he should have maybe bothered to pick up his phone!”

Fiona has a sinking suspicion that Sam will already be aware of what she is going to tell him. Sam is quiet, listening to whatever Dean is telling him.

“Have you talked to him?” Sam asks, voice subdued. “Not once? D’you think-?” Silence. “I _know!_ I can’t help it. Like you’re any better with your calling and shit.”

Fiona is pretty sure that Sam is covering up fear with his snide comments and that worries her. Children should not be doing the worrying in a family.

“Did he go alone?” A breath. “Well, isn’t that just fantastic!” Sam rails, pacing across the floor, going by the clattering against her tiles.

Fiona is just about to go there and end this clearly counterproductive conversation when something catches her attention.

“You sure it’s a werewolf?”

She stops. Surely she didn’t hear that right.

“Yeah, but what’s he still doing there then? If he lost it he won’t get a new trail till next lunar cycle and if he’s gone for a month he’s gonna miss-“.

It really sounds like Sam is talking about werewolves with his brother and while a rational part of her mind is arguing they could have switched topics it does sound suspiciously like they’re discussing Mr. Winchester’s absence. Slowly, a memory from several weeks back comes creeping to the forefront of her mind.

In her room when she first took Sam from class to talk about possible abuse from home, when she asked if his dad was hurting him, Sam had answered that his dad was _protecting_ him. Is this what he meant? Not from social services or the police, but some fabricated story about real actual monsters? A cold tendril runs down her back.

Not only is Mr. Winchester, the one person his children should be able to trust with everything, hurting them physically, he’s also brainwashing them. There’s always reluctance in children of abuse to believe their parents are actually bad people, that they’re hurting them on purpose. This, though, this is making them think that the only thing standing between them and monsters is their dad. He’s forcing them to choose between their protector and some unknown monster, lurking in the shadows. It doesn’t matter if the protector sometimes hurts them, too. It’s all par for the course. There is never going to be any competition.

“Yeah, sure. Just keep me posted… No, it’s not terrible but it’s not like I wanna stay forever. Yeah, ha-freaking-ha… Because I want normal _with you_! I don’t wanna- You know what, screw you!” Sam yells and finally hangs up.

He’s glaring daggers at the phone and Fiona takes that moment to step through the doorway. He must sense her presence because he turns around immediately. When his eyes focus on her they widen and he flinches back.

“You- How long did you…?”

“Long enough”, Fiona says grimly. “Why don’t we have a talk?”

 

~*~

 

The demon who’s bound to a chair in the devil’s trap is screaming profanities at him while John slowly and meticulously pours holy water over the open wounds left on his arms. They’re inside an abandoned cabin about five miles out the city, their only surroundings forest and more forest, so John isn’t too worried.

“You stupid man! It doesn’t even matter if I tell you, it’ll all happen as the prophecy has foretold and there is nothing you simple, stupid hunter can do about it!”

The hysterical laughter tearing from the demon’s mouth is unsettling and John considers gagging the thing, but he needs it to talk. He grits his teeth and cuts open another wound, tries not to think of the poor banker who’s trapped in his body, being forced to live through this so that John can get his answers. He promises himself he’ll exorcise the thing swiftly just as soon as he learns what he came here to find out.

“So tell me, if it doesn’t matter either way, and save yourself the pain!”

“You think you’re clever with your traps and holy water. It’s like a child playing with toys. The pain you’re inflicting is nothing compared to what my master would do to me if I ever told you.”

It’s sweating profusely and licking at its dry lips, the host obviously completely parched, probably dehydrated and most likely going to die just as soon as the demon leaves him. There’s nothing John can do about that.

“Oh, I’ve got plenty more in store for you”, John bluffs and hopes he’s convincing because there really isn’t that much that can actually hurt a demon.

The laughter he gets in response lower his spirits considerably.

“Laugh all you want, but nothing’s stopping me from keeping you here. I’ve got nowhere to be and plenty of rage to get out of my system. Feel free to cut in at any time to get out of being my chew toy.”

“Oooh, I don’t think that’s entirely true, do you, John Winchester?”

John stills. The demon leers at him.

“Yes, I know who you are and I know about your sons you’ve left alone back in Louisville. I even know about your predicament with the law and how you’re half an inch away from losing your youngest forever.”

“Shut up.”

“But you _wanted_ me to talk, remember?”

“Not about my sons.”

“But it’s all about your sons, didn’t you realize? About little Sammy and the tainted blood running through his veins…”

John feels his blood freeze to ice under his skin because this isn’t something he’s prepared to hear, even when this is exactly what he hoped to get out of the vile creature sitting in front of him, covered in blood and sweat and grime.

“That’s what you want to know, isn’t it? Why tiny whiny Sammy, the _baby_ of the family, didn’t get turned into a skinwalker?” The demon’s voice is dripping of mock-sympathy. “Why poor, poor Mary burned to death on _his_ ceiling. It’s _aa~ll_ tied together, John Winchester. You’re only at the very fringe of it and you’re still beginning to see the darkness surrounding little Sammy.”

“ _Shut up_!”

“No, you _wanted_ this, you little piece of shit. Sammy’s going dark, he’s coming to our side and there’s nothing you can do about it-“.

“ _Exorcizamus te, ominis immundus spiritus_ ”, John chants, reading the words carefully from the book he brought with him on demon exorcisms.

The eyes of the demon flash black and an inhuman cry scratches out of its throat and John goes on.

“ _Omnis satanica potestas, omnis incursio-”._

”No!” the demon roars. “The boy will lead us all, he’s the key to your destruction. The darkness will consume him-“. The words cut off as black smoke starts pouring out from between its lips, only grotesque, choking sounds remaining as the demon leaves its host.

John finishes the exorcism, checks if the host is alive, and cuts him lose and buries him in the forest out back when he realizes he’s not. He very carefully doesn’t think about what the demon said.


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks again to my wonderful beta, Momo, who's been a great support!
> 
> This is it, guys, the last of it. I hope you like it! :D

Sam’s heart is fluttering in his chest and his hands are sweating. Mrs. Davidson positioned them in the couch with a blanket and a cup of hot chocolate, like so many other nights. He watches her as she gets the beverage ready and takes note of her blank face, shaking hands and controlled movements.

It’s not looking good. He knows that, of course. When a twelve year old starts spouting nonsense about werewolves, and not in the TV or game kind, it’s a problem. He clenches his hands into fists and wishes he could rewind the past hour.

“So”, Mrs. Davidson says as she sits down.

She didn’t make any cocoa for herself. It’s a bad sign as anything. He holds his cup in front of himself like a shield and meets her stare. He doesn’t say anything.

“Do you believe in werewolves, Sam?” she asks finally when it becomes apparent he won’t speak unless prompted.

He briefly considers lying but bearing in mind what she heard, he deems it futile. “Yes.”

“Because your father told you?”

Sam bites his lip. This is a line he won’t be able to uncross. This is a decision he has to make. Either his father is a lying man who abuses his children and fills their heads with lies to keep them from talking, or… Or Sam’s crazy.

“No.”

“You don’t have to lie-“, Mrs. Davidson cuts in.

“I believe in werewolves because I’ve seen them.”

Mrs. Davidson pauses. Her eyes switch from worried and compassionate to confused. Sam sees the change take place, the moment she goes from thinking the absolute worst of John, to… something else. He doesn’t think she knows what yet.

“What do you mean?”

Sam takes a sip of his cocoa. He thinks he’s going to miss this when they place him in a mental institute. The peaceful evenings, the weekends spent in the garden working out weeds, chattering about plans to go to the Louisville Historical Museum, that dinner where he was finally going to invite Amir over.

He doesn’t think they allow those type of things for the mentally unstable. He doesn’t think Mrs. Davidson or Amir will want to come and visit him. On the upside, maybe Dad and Dean will come and break him out…

“Whenever we go on family camping trips, we’re really going to hunt werewolves and other monsters. It’s why we move around so much. We track them. It’s kind of the family business.”

It’s almost a relief to say the words out loud, telling it someone outside the family. Just getting it off his chest and having someone react to it like it’s _not_ normal, like it’s not par for the course and why is he whining about it? Mrs. Davidson swallows and squeezes her hands together.

“And, these, uh, werewolves, you’ve seen them?” Mrs. Davidson treads carefully.

“Only one, but Dean’s seen more. He’s older so he got to come with before I did. He took down his first when he was ten!” Sam says and can’t really help the combination of jealousy and distaste that spills from his mouth.

“Take down…?” Mrs. Davidson probes.

“Gank, kill, whatever you call it. With werewolves it’s a silver bullet to the heart. Or a silver knife, or anything silver sharp enough to penetrate the body deep enough to cut into the heart, I guess”

“Have you ever…?” Mrs. Davidson asks, clearly dreading the answer.

Sam considers, once again. He’s never killed a _werewolf¸_ per se, but the memory of the skinwalker keeps flashing before his eyes, and really, he knows what Mrs. Davidson’s asking, even if she doesn’t. Seeing her sitting there, wringing her hands, makes the decision for him.

“No. I’ve never killed one. Dad doesn’t think I’m big enough to be that close yet.”

A strange expression crosses Mrs. Davidson’s face as she seems to recall the whole reason for Sam’s placement here.

“But your injuries… The doctors thought it was a wild animal-“.

“Yeah, that time it was actually a wild dog. Came out of nowhere. Dad was so pissed at me for getting in the way. I don’t think he’ll let me come on any more hunting trips for a while”, Sam huffs and watches Mrs. Davidson carefully over the brim of the cup, looking to see if she buys it.

It’s difficult to say because she appears to be somewhere between deep in thought and in a state of shock. She should have made a cup for herself, too, but Sam doesn’t think he’s allowed to get up and make her one. He sits still, waiting for her to react.

“So, these werewolves. Are they like in the movies?”

He can see her turn from rational thought to just going with it. She’s trying to get him to talk and Sam’s tired of considering every word. The cat’s out of the bag, so what does it matter now? He’ll tell her the truth and she can decide he’s nuts and determine what to do with him afterwards.

“Depends…?”

“Do they transform from humans into wolves? People during the day and beast at the full moon?”

 “They’re actually pretty spot on with werewolves. They follow the lunar cycle; look like humans during the day and for the duration of the full moon, usually three nights, they transform.”

“But, when they’re human, they’re harmless, right? Your dad never… hunt them”, she says slowly, with a pause, deliberating her choice of words, “when they’re human, right?”

Sam decides not to mention that the wolf transformation is more of a slight mutation involving sharpened eye sight and longer nails, rather than actually turning into a wolf.

 “No, he just tracks their patterns.” Mrs. Davidson is staring at him so he elaborates. “Well, it’s hard to be sure, seeing as they don’t remember and it’s only for three nights a month, so he would normally wait until it’s full moon, follow them until they wolf out and then kill them.”

“And if they don’t?”

“Then he was mistaken and he leaves them alone. He’s not a murderer.”

She takes a deep breath, and Sam, dreading it, is ready to launch into an explanation, show her proof, anything to prevent her from refuting his words. She doesn’t say them, though, lets the air puff out of her chest.

“And Dean? All three of you go on these hunts? Together?”

“Well, yeah. When I was little Dad used to go alone, leave Dean to take care of me. Sometimes Dean would go, too, if Dad could drop me off at Uncle Bobby’s or Pastor Jim. But now I’m big so I get to come, too.”

“How big were you the first time he took you with him?”

“Nine.”

“All right, listen to me, Sam. It’s perfectly normal to-“, Mrs. Davidson starts and Sam’s heart sinks.

“You don’t believe me.”

“I believe you believe what you’re saying is true. But I also think that you’ve seen a lot of horrible things in your life from a young age and that your mind has taken anything it could to rationalize it, including turning your father into a hero figure that protects you from bad things.”

“He does!”

“Monsters don’t exist, Sam. Whatever you think you’ve seen, it’s just illusions your mind has provided you with to shield you from the truth. Something your young mind couldn’t comprehend. Something you still believe because it’s easier than seeing what was really there. Something like your dad hurting you-“.

“My dad never hurt me!” Sam screams at her and it feels like no time has passed at all since he last screamed this at Mrs. Davidson, at Ms. Huber, at anyone who would listen. “My dad is doing what he must to protect us. Why don’t you get that?”

To his utter humiliation he feels tears burning at the back of his eyes and he blinks furiously to get rid of them.

“What is he doing, Sam? Tell me what he’s doing to protect you”, Mrs. Davidson insists and Sam grits his teeth.

“He trains us to fight the monsters.”

“What does that mean?”

“It means we spend hours in the library reading up on folklore, it means we practice body combat just outside the city line, he teaches us to shoot guns and make spears and set up traps. We go on survival excursions where we hunt what we eat, we learn to stitch up wounds and gut animals and make up fires. We learn to survive in a world that doesn’t believe in the supernatural!”

He knows he has said too much. He knows it even as he says it, knows he’ll never see his dad after this. And yet he can’t stop the words from streaming out of his mouth like vomit. Disgusting, unprocessed vomit of truth that should never be spoken. He sees it on Mrs. Davidson’s face when she pales, the widening of her eyes and how she stops breathing.

It’s over. It’s all over.

 

~*~

 

John slows the car down to a crawl when he approaches the school grounds. It’s afternoon and the kids are all coming out of the building in their jackets and school bags on their shoulders. One car waiting by the gates shouldn’t attract much attention, just some parent waiting to pick up their kid. Of course, there’s the fact that he’s not here to pick his son up. Even if he wasn’t prohibited from seeing him, he wouldn’t even be the one to normally come. That would be Dean, rolling up in the Impala with music drumming out of the speakers so loudly the vibrations buzz through his spine. And the boy thinks he doesn’t know.

The truck he finally bought, the 1986 GMC Sierra Grande doesn’t feel quite as comfortable as the Chevy, but it’ll do. He has gotten used to it. Through the side window he looks upon the children running around, meeting up with friends, getting their bikes, scattering. He looks for his son, for the quiet boy with a hidden temper and poisonous tongue. He looks for brown hair and still waiting for his growth spurt. He looks for scrawny and struggling to get comfortable in his own skin, that awkward age when everything is starting to change.

He doesn’t find that boy.

Instead he sees Sam, walking confidently next to a classmate, laughing at a joke, scuffling around like boys do. Sam is gesturing wildly with his hands and the other boy is shaking his head with a grin on his face. When they get to the parking lot, Sam looks around briefly and John panics, thinks he’ll notice the truck, see John there.

He quickly ducks down in the seat and watches as Sam seems to locate what he’s looking for. A small blue Ford Fiesta from the second generation. John almost scoffs but then stops to think. This must be the car the family he’s staying with now drives. He knows that a car isn’t always indicative of the person driving it, but damn if he doesn’t start profiling.

Sam and his friend go over to the car but don’t get in, clearly waiting for the owner. They’re talking, leaning against the car. Sam looks relaxed, not scanning the crowd or hunching in on himself.

John sits there, looking at his son, thinking he has had twelve years to raise that boy and yet he’s never managed to get him to look like he’s actually enjoying his life. Not like this.

He has never encouraged friendships. He knows they’ll never stay long enough for them to develop into something real and it’s always troubling when they have to leave in a hurry and they have springs attached. It’s not worth it. He stands by that. And yet…

Sam rifles around in his bag and pulls out a notebook which he starts flipping through. The friend is leaning over Sam’s shoulder, looking where Sam’s pointing and they appear to be talking about some school assignment. Sam has really been putting on his A-game in research lately which has been a relief because Dean finds it beyond boring, bites his cheek even as he puts the hours in, and John often misses things, doesn’t spend as much time as he should on the details.

Looking at his son now, though, he can’t help but feel that maybe it’s more than that. Maybe Sam’s just more a natural academic and by making him live this life, a hunter’s life, he’s taking something away from him. Something a parent should never deprive his son of.

And yes, he knows that whatever’s going on with Sam is seriously bad shit. He knows that something’s coming and whatever it is, it’s going to be bad and he always thought that it would be best if he kept Sam as close as possible so whenever the bad decides to come knocking, he’ll be there to protect him.  But, what if he’s been thinking about this all wrong?

By keeping him close, he has been exposing him to all these supernatural beings, maybe tainting him, luring him closer to some point where the bad won’t come to _get_ him, but instead turn him from the inside. It’s a chilling thought but something he can’t ignore. Not after what Bobby said. Not after what the demon said.

Maybe he’s better off leaving Sam in this bright, innocent world where the things that go bump in the night can’t get to him. At least not like driving and looking for the crap, seeking it out like deranged thrill-seekers. Maybe this is better.

Maybe he should give this to Sam because there’s isn’t a hell of a lot he _can_ give him.

 

~*~

 

Sam stares at the poster of Rio. He’s sprawled across the bed with his arms stretched behind his neck, head resting in his hands. He hasn’t done his homework, didn’t go down for dinner when Mrs. Davidson called. Instead he’s here, staring at a memory of a lie. He and Dean convinced Dad to take them to a wrestling game when they happened to coincide with a hunt nearby, and Dad, after some grudging, caved. He smiled at them all night and bought Dean a beer that Sam got a sneak taste of when Dad wasn’t looking. It’s like a mockery.

John missed the hearing. Sam’s fighting with Dean, again. Mrs. Davidson found out about the monsters and is probably in the process of calling every mental institute in the vicinity to get him administered as he lies here feeling sorry for himself. He thinks he’s justified, though. Mrs. Davidson petted his leg comfortingly and told him to go to his room; that she’d take care of it. He doesn’t know what that means.

He should call Dean, he knows. Let him know he spilled the beans on the family business. Get Dean to help him make a plan. But he can’t. Because he’s not sure Dean would help him, not sure Dad wants him back. He’s not back from the hunt. Full moon has come and gone and he still hasn’t figured out who the were is, so he’ll be sticking around until he can ‘take the fugly down’, as Dean expressed it.

It doesn’t make Sam feel any better.

It’s turned dark in the room and he considers walking over to the lamp and turning it on, but it feels like too much of an effort. He forgot to raise the blinds this morning so it doesn’t take long before it’s pitch black and he can’t see Rio’s smiling face anymore.

He closes his eyes, thinks about sleep but even as his limbs are heavy with exhaustion, his mind won’t quiet down. He keeps hearing Dean’s voice. Angry, afraid. Worried about Dad and blaming Sam for wanting to get out even when the shit they’re doing is the cause of all this. It’s not fair and Sam curses the tears that traitorously spill down his face into his hair. He’s so _done_ with crying.

After what feels like hours Mrs. Davidson knocks on his door. He pretends to be asleep, closes his eyes and regulates his breathing like Dean taught him. He listens to her open the door, take a few careful steps into the room.

“Sam?” she implores quietly and Sam doesn’t say anything, hopes she will go away.

She sighs, places something on his nightstand and then nothing. Sam’s straining his ears to find out what she’s doing, but he doesn’t open his eyes.

“It’s going to be okay”, Mrs. Davidson says eventually.

She strokes his cheek with a gentle hand. His tears have dried by now but it still feels strange. He doesn’t have anyone to stroke his cheek in his life and he’s not sure how to feel about it. He wonders if his mom would, if she was still alive. She probably would. Would probably hug him, too. Maybe kiss his temple.

He’s infinitely happy when Mrs. Davidson straightens up and leaves. He doesn’t wish she would stay and continue petting him, reassuring him. Doesn’t.

It’s a long time before he falls asleep.

 

~*~

 

They finally schedule a meeting. It’s almost Christmas and while they never really do anything special, seeing as Dad’s usually not even home, Sam can’t help but think of it as a Christmas miracle. That doesn’t stop him from experiencing new levels of worry the entire week leading up to it.

_It_ being the supervised visit with his family.

His stomach is so knotted up it feels like he’s swallowed a hot ball of lead and it’s just sitting there, slowly burning a hole through him. On the morning of the visit he tries to eat some breakfast but ends up throwing it up again. Mrs. Davidson keeps looking at him with worried eyes but thankfully refrains from suggesting they postpone it again.

When they drive to the station there is a tense silence between them. Sam is too busy thinking about Dad to really worry about that, too, but the third time Mrs. Davidson gently clears her throat he drags his eyes from the scenery out the window to look at her.

“Sam, I want you to know that it’s going to be okay. I know it’s nerve-wracking to see your Dad again after so long, but he’s going to be happy to see you, no matter what, and if it goes well, we’ll organize for you to meet again.”

 “Yeah, no, I know. I just miss him.”

“Of course you do, he’s your dad. And you’ve been doing so good these past couple of weeks, Sam. You can tell him about your science project and your new friend, Amir. I think he’d like to hear how you’ve been.”

Sam blinks down at his hands that are resting in his lap. They’re soft, all calluses from practice are gone. He has put on two pounds since he started living with Mrs. Davidson, this last week not-withstanding. All his bruises have disappeared, melted back into normal healthy skin color. His dad might take one look at him and declare him no son of his. Something constricts in his chest.

“Maybe.”

The drive is both too long and over in a flash. When Mrs. Davidson parks the car in front of the police station, Sam thinks, panicked, that he’s not ready. He grips the upholstery of the seat so hard his knuckles turn white. He might be hyperventilating.

He flinches when Mrs. Davidson puts a hand on his arm. He looks up at her with big eyes and doesn’t know what she sees but she’s smiling reassuringly at him. Her warm face with wrinkles around her eyes and an open smile that reveals a crooked tooth. It’s familiar and safe and without thinking he collapses against her.

She wraps strong arms around him and rock him gently like the mother he never knew. The tears shake out of him violently but she doesn’t seem to care, just pets his hair and doesn’t say a word. Everything he has been carrying around just explodes and he sobs into her shoulder. It feels like it goes on forever and he would be embarrassed but there’s just no room for anything more. So he cries and cries until the tears dry up.

“It’s okay, Sam”, Mrs. Davidson murmurs in his ear and he sighs against her hair.

When he leans back he sees that he has left behind a wet spot on her blazer. “Sorry”, he says and gestures weakly against it.

“Oh, this is hardly the first time someone’s snotted down my shirt. One learns to cope”, she says and smiles. “Don’t worry about it, I’ve got another one in the back.” She winks at him and everything feels just an increment better. “What do you say we go inside and get this done?”

A cold tendril runs through his heart but he shakes it off and nods. Yeah, go see Dad and Dean. Like he has been wanting to do ever since he first got taken from them.

 

~*~

 

They room they’ve been put in is small. It has a table with four chairs, a huge mirror John is guessing is really two-way, and one door which locks from the outside. A pretty standard interrogation room. John knows, because he’s been in one on several occasions, but Dean is walking around inspecting everything from the air vents to table legs which are rigged to the floor. John lets him, while he sits back in his chair, trying to remain calm.

It’s the first time he’s legally allowed to see his son in two months. He knows Dean’s been going to meet to him at school and keeping in touch via phone, and he himself has been sneaking around the school grounds to catch a glimpse, but this is different. This is a supervised, booked in advance visit which will be used as material when deciding if he’s fit to take care of Sam.

He still hasn’t told them he plans on pleading guilty and give up all visitation rights, take Dean and get the hell out of Dodge. He thinks he should tell Sam first, but now, sitting here, waiting to see him, he’s feeling nervous. His throat is dry and he wishes he had had something to drink to keep his calm before coming here. Not that showing up drunk at the police is ever a good idea, but he can dream.

The lock rattles when they unlock it and both he and Dean freezes when the door swings open. John is on his feet before he has made a conscious decision to rise and then there is Sam. He’s standing behind the officer who led him in there but John barely takes notice.

Sam is twisting his hands in the hem of his flannel shirt. It’s clearly new and ironed, fancier than any of Dean’s hand-me-downs he’s usually dressed in. When he finally steps into the room John notices that he has grown. He’s almost as tall as Dean and he has put on muscle even though Dean told John that Sam hadn’t really had an opportunity to work out with his guardian always looking over his shoulder.

It aches in John’s chest to realize that he has missed so much of Sam’s growth. He thought he had noticed all the differences when he spied on him at school but he was too far away to really see.

“Sir”, Sam says carefully, straightening out and falling into a formal stance and John bites the inside of his lip.

“Sam”, he says and swings his arms helplessly forward.

“Dad”, Sam says then and his face crumbles into a million pieces of grief.

Standing too far away, trying futilely to keep it together, maybe for the cameras, maybe the guard still in the door, maybe from John himself, but it’s not something John cares about right now.

“C’mere”, John grunts and Sam throws himself into his arms.

They collide heavily and John stumbles to counter the force. He envelopes Sam in his arms and feels his body shaking. Sam’s face is tucked into John’s neck and he feels the wetness like a brand on his skin. _Failure. You did this to him._

Sam has clearly been keeping a lot of pain locked up, hiding it away in order to keep up appearance. It unravels when he’s enclosed in his father’s arms. It’s humbling and painful and John should have never let this happen. He feels the weight of guilt on his shoulders.

John bends his face down to smell his hair, ignoring the scent of some fancy shampoo and digging his nose down until he can smell nothing but his son. He realizes tears are running down his cheeks and he doesn’t try to stop them. He doesn’t tell his boys he loves them often enough, and the embarrassment of breaking down in front of police officers and cameras and the whole damn station is not enough to stop him now.

He holds Sam while he cries and thinks he’s a stupid, stupid man for ever thinking he could leave him behind. For thinking Sam would be better off somewhere where John can’t be there to protect him. If Mary was here, she would smack him over the head, he thinks, and closes his eyes.

After a little while he notices Dean standing a few feet away, looking at them with a strange, closed-off expression. So he pulls out an arm and drags him into the hug as well. He feels the tension leak out of his oldest and breathes in this moment where he gets to have his family surrounding him. Whole, alive and here.

“I’m so sorry, Sammy”, he mumbles and Sam whines into his neck.

_I’m so sorry. I’ve got you now, I’ve got you. Don’t worry, it’s going to be okay. I’ve got you._

 

~*~

 

Sam gets through the next day as if surrounded by a thick grey sludge.

His body moves slowly and his thoughts even more so. Amir keeps giving him strange looks, but Sam is grateful that he doesn’t ask. He doesn’t know what he would even say. _I think I just saw my dad for the last time_. Just thinking it makes his chest constrict painfully and he shifts his thoughts away.

Mrs. Davidson is going through something complicated on the board and Sam should be taking notes. The scratching of the chalk marker and her voice reverberates through the room and Sam lets it wash over him. He imagines this is what it’s like to be stupid. Unable to concentrate, not even caring what’s being said. It’s a sad way of life, he thinks, detached.

They reach the part of the lesson when they’ll be opening their books, start reading or working on problems, which is good. Less chance of being called to answer a question. Not that Sam thinks Mrs. Davidson would be so cruel as to ask him anything today. She was with him this morning, after all. Watched him miss his mouth when eating the breakfast cereal.

The bustling of books being pulled from bags and papers being flipped, looking for the right chapter, is interrupted by the shrill sound of the fire alarm going off.

There is a beat where nobody moves, frozen in surprise.

Then everybody is getting to their feet in a rush, and people start pushing for the door. Some people are reaching for their bags, others are throwing their things to the side, not a second glance to see if someone gets hit in the crossfire.

“Everybody, stop!” Mrs. Davidson calls out, commanding voice grabbing everyone’s attention.

The panicked rush comes to a pause. Curious, scared eyes seek her out, wavering between ignoring her and finding someone who can thread through the chaos. She gestures with her arms for them to settle down, and miraculously, they do. Sam bites down a smile. The adrenaline from the emergency has finally pushed him out of his head, and he reacts instinctively to the authority figure.

“Leave all your things behind and line up in pairs. We’ll move organized and without rush out to the parking lot. Nobody leaves the group.”

Everybody bustles around quickly, in a hurry to comply, but it’s different from before. Controlled, not panicked. Sam moves to his spot in the back, his place always easy to find, having a surname starting with W. He catches Amir’s eye and smiles reassuringly. His name, Bashur, places him at the very front, next to Jocelyn Allen. He wishes he was closer so he could say something to get that frightened expression off his face. He settles for nodding.

In troop they move out into the corridor, Mrs. Davidson leading them out, past the other classrooms. Other classes are already moving out, similarly organized and moving quickly. Their home classroom is at the end of the corridor, though, so they’re a bit behind the rest of them. Sam sneaks a peek through the glass windows in the doors as he passes them by, just checking to see if anyone’s left inside.

They’re almost out the exit when something moves at the corner of Sam’s eye. He turns to look, slowing down. He’s last and alone, so nobody notices. Just behind a cluster of lockers, he could have sworn-

He yelps when something moves up behind him, presses a dry hand to his mouth and drags him backwards, into one of the empty corridors intersecting theirs.

It takes naught a second before Sam’s training kicks in and he tenses his body. He flings back an elbow that should connect solidly to his attacker’s ribs, but he seems to anticipate it because he shifts and Sam’s elbow slips harmlessly against his attacker’s side and throws Sam off balance. Not one to be deterred, Sam follows it up with a kick to the shin of his attacker, listens to him grunt in pain, and quickly whams his head back, listening in satisfaction when he hears the crunch indicating a broken nose.

“Fuuuck”, a gruff voice grunts out and then Sam is on the floor, arms suspended above his head and a knee pressing into his back.

It takes a moment but he recognizes this hold and now that he has a second to think above the adrenaline pumping through him, he knows that voice and he has spent countless hours finding counterattacks for these moves. He breathes with some difficulty through the weight on his back, but eventually he has enough air to press out:

“Dean? What the fuck are you doing here?” and then, because something that’s been gnawing at the back of his head comes rushing back, “get off, we need to move. There’s a fire!”

A dark chuckle is all that greets him and Sam grits his teeth because the obvious is dawning on him.

“Oh my god, you set off the freaking fire alarm.”

“Right in one”, Dean says, pleased as punch and Sam swears he can actually _hear_ the self-satisfied smirk adorning his lips.

“Oh shut up, you almost caused a panic in there”, says Sam and can’t help but feel vindicated when remembering his frightened classmates’ faces.

“That’s just poor fire drilling from the school’s side. You might say I did them a favor”, Dean answers and if there is logic to that, only Dean can see it.

Sam coughs when breathing in to berate him some more and he accidentally inhales dust instead. Speaking of which:

“Are you going to let me up anytime soon?” he manages when he finally gets air in enough to speak.

There is a beat where Dean doesn’t move and Sam struggles to twist around to see his face but then the weight is lifted from his body and he’s being hauled up. Dean pats down his front to get rid of the accumulated dust and Sam grimaces a bit because he knows the general cleanliness of the school floors.

“Was it really necessary to put me on the floor?” grumbles Sam and picks a dust bunny from his sleeve. “Couldn’t you just have told me it was you?”

“Where’s the fun in that?” Dean demands and then grins. “’sides, if you can’t defend against basic attacks like that, you deserve what’s coming at you. Getting rusty, are we?”

Sam sends him a withering glare. Dean looks back him innocently and it’s such a stupid face and Sam kind of wants to punch it. But he also wants to hug him and if he ever says that Dean will put him right back on the floor.

“How’s your nose?” he asks instead and Dean grimaces.

“I’ll live”, he says and touches it tenderly, and sends Sam a look when he carefully reaches out to feel for breaks. “Hey, watch the merchandise!”

Sam pauses, a hand still outstretched between them. He lets it fall, warily meeting Dean’s gaze. Assessing, waiting, they’re staring at each other.

The moment drags out and even though they’re in a hurry, nobody moves. Sam lets his shoulders slump and Dean’s mask breaks and it’s just been a really long time since they saw each other and weren’t fighting or pretending or worrying.

“So what’s the plan?” asks Sam eventually.

“Dad’s outside. You wanna get your bag, you should do so quickly before your teacher realizes you’re gone.”

Sam feels a tug of guilt thinking about Mrs. Davidson. She’s going to notice he’s gone, realize he has been taken and probably blame herself for not protecting him from his abusive dad, or even Sam’s own delusional mind. He puts the thoughts of Mrs. Davidson’s kind eyes out of mind and runs back to the classroom to grab his bag, Dean at his back.

“So my stuff, back at the house?” he enquires as he’s locating his bag, somehow thrown across the room with its contents spread out on the floor.

“We’ve got it. Had some trouble locating the knife…” he leaves the question hanging. “I’m guessing Davidson caught you with it?”

Sam throws his things back into the bag, sips it up and throws it across his shoulder before he answers.

“Had it under my pillow and she woke me up the first morning”, he says and he doesn’t need to finish because Dean gets it. He sticks his hand into the hidden compartment of the bag, picking the knife up. “Got it back, though”, he says cheekily and feels warm all over when Dean laughs and ruffles his hair like a little kid.

They move out of the classroom, follow the echoing hallways out back. It’s been so long since anyone even grasped the essentials of what it means to be the son of a hunter, to be a hunter, that Sam can’t help a small smile breaking out across his face. It’s nothing to smile about, really. Most of the time it sucks, but something about Dean being here, coming to get him, it puts him at ease. Maybe it’s not the most terrible thing in the world.

“What are you grinning at?” Dean asks as they sneak over the school fence.

Sam puts his foot in Dean’s cupped hands and pulls himself up on the wall when Dean sends him up. Sitting on it, he turns around and hauls Dean up next to him. Dean weighs a ton and Sam almost falls back down.

“Just your stupid face”, Sam answers and laughs when Dean smacks him across his head. “Watch it, it’s domestic abuse!” he wails and Dean freezes.

They stare at each other and Sam wonders if it’s too soon, feeling the laughter die in his chest. Then Dean breaks into a shit-eating grin and pushes him down the wall.

“You don’t know the meaning of the word”, he says and jumps down next to him.

Sam snorts and together they quickly track through the neighboring houses and streets, ignoring the wailing of the firetrucks that are arriving, and get to the rendezvous point. Sam spots the black Impala before Dean does and a warm buzz sizzles across his skin, making him so happy it’s completely out of proportion for seeing a car.

They reach it and Dad finally sees them and steps out. He’s dressed in his normal leather jacket, boots and scruffy jeans that have since long seen their best days. His beard hasn’t grown back since whatever torture he put it through to get it to look respectable, but the afternoon shade is enough of his normal uncared for appearance that Sam knows whatever charade they were doing before is over.

Standing stiffly a few feet from each other Sam doesn’t know what to do. He broke down completely in front of his dad yesterday, but overemotional isn’t their style. He can count on one hand the number of times they’ve hugged in the last year.

“Where’s the truck?” he asks, more because he should say something than because he really cares.

“Got it packed and ready a few miles out”, Dad answers and Sam nods, because that makes sense.

Dean is looking between them with a worried frown and Sam thinks he’s uncomfortably like a dog in this moment and squelches the impulse to pat his head. They’ll get over this, they always do, and they’ll be back to having it out over hunts and homework and training in no time.

“Then let’s get going”, he says and Dean smiles and ruffles his hair again.

It’s a real struggle to keep the grin under wraps. Dad looks at him with such fond amusement Sam thinks he probably didn’t manage it as well as he wanted.

“Yeah, sure thing, sport”, he says and Sam rolls his eyes.

They get into the car. Dad’s driving even though he’s officially given her to Dean. Dean doesn’t seem to mind. Much. He’s sitting shotgun and as soon as they’re off, he sends a look back at Sam who’s sitting in the back. A tentative smile is hovering across his lips and Sam gets it. A lot was said during the past couple of weeks, nothing of which means anything because they’re family, and all is forgiven. Sam bites back a smile and kicks the backrest.

“Hey!” Dean exclaims, a mock-rage expression contorting his face. “Quit screwing with Baby!”

Sam’s about to snipe back an appropriate response when their dad cuts him off.

“No messing around in the car!”

The reprimand is so familiar, Dad’s gruff voice, Dean’s chagrinned face, and Sam, sitting in the car he’s practically grown up in, surrounded by the smell of well-cared for leather, gun oil, and Dad and Dean, finally relaxes. He’s home.

 

~*~

 

Many years pass and Fiona thinks often of Sam.

She wonders about the fire that wasn’t, and thinks she should have somehow known. She has no doubt in her mind the whole thing was set up by Mr. Winchester, a crafty man by Sam’s own confession. She doesn’t think Sam knew what was going to happen, he didn’t seem anxious that morning.

Whenever she closes her eyes she can picture his face, small, worried and sad whenever he thought she wasn’t looking. He didn’t know she was always looking.

Ms. Huber thanked her for taking Sam in, but in truth it was, for the most part, for herself. She saw Justin in Sam and somewhere along the road she substituted her son for Sam when the loneliness got too hard to bear.

It’s not fair how Sam got taken. Mr. Winchester, when she sees a picture of him, seems like the kind of man you instantly respect. She knows, finally, what Ms. Huber meant when she described him as intense. Something in his eyes that demands you to believe him, relayed even through the gray-scale ink. It takes her months before she realizes why the look unsettles her so much. A man carrying the weight of the world, reflected in his son, sitting on the couch in her living room, telling her about evil.

She still considers it the biggest failure in her life when she lost him. He features heavily in her nightmares for many months. His scared face as dark, all-encompassing arms wrap around him and take him away. She always wakes in a cold sweat and she calls Justin that first week, listens to his voicemail, more times than she has in years.

After Sam would have graduated, she invites Amir over and they share a pleasant dinner that is heavy with unsaid things. He is lonely after Sam leaves, so unexpectedly. Eventually he must have heard what happened because he stops looking towards the door in the mornings. She wishes she could tell him that Sam is okay, but that would be a lie.

Eventually, Sam stops percolating in her mind so constantly. She continues teaching. New classes, new students, same routine. She briefly starts dating someone but it fizzles out before it has time to start. She’s fine with it. She’s promoted to head of the Mathematics Department and can finally afford to hire a guy to care for her flowers in the spring. She watches in satisfaction as they bloom proudly again.

A decade passes and Fiona’s in the midst of planning her retirement. It’s only when she watches the news about a serial killer in Saint Louis, Missouri, that she realizes with a pang she hasn’t thought of Sam in a long time. With dawning horror she sees the name _Dean Winchester_ splashed all over the screen. Sam’s older brother.

_He took down his first when he was ten!_

A shiver runs down her back. She remembers it clearly, as if it was only yesterday. Admiration clear in Sam’s voice. She thought it was safe because he spoke of wolves, not humans. In retrospect it’s not a huge leap to realize eventually the outlet wouldn’t be enough. Sooner or later, animal will turn to human.

She doesn’t see Sam’s name mentioned, and she thinks, maybe, maybe he got out. Maybe he found help elsewhere.

It’s a small comfort and when she lies awake at night it doesn’t help at all.

When the news get old, she lets it go. The boy she knew and tried to save isn’t here anymore and there is nothing she can do.

After that she keeps her eye out for news about Sam. She’s surprised to see both their names pop up only a year later, robbing a bank and Dean very much alive.

They’re arrested not long after. She sees the mugshot of Sam, compares it to those deep eyes conveying so much pain in person. He looks like a sad puppy where even the nicest person on the block would look like a sharp-edged killer in those photos. He’s still recognizable.

She stops looking.

The news about the Winchester brothers’ killing spree through the country are impossible to miss. She doesn’t sleep at all the night they report about their hit on a convenience store in Black Water Ridge, Colorado. When they’re gunned down in Ankeny, Iowa, Fiona goes to church for the first time in twenty years and lights a candle.

 

On a warm April morning several years later Rebecca Allen disappears from her bedroom. The police are frantic. They send out search parties. Parents start a neighborhood patrol, ignoring that the little girl was taken from within her home.

A week later Henry Callaghan is plucked from a swing set during rec time. The police advice parents to stay home with their children and always keep a careful look out.

When Sarah Nelson disappears while her mother is paying for groceries, the FBI roll into town.

 

They come in a black 67 Chevy Impala kept in impeccable condition.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Wow, it's done. This is the first multi-chaptered thing I've written in years, so I was really nervous about posting it, but you guys have been great, commenting and encouraging me, so a huge, heart-felt THANK YOU to all of you! I hope you've enjoyed it as much as I have.
> 
> I actually started writing the continuation of what happens in Louisville with the kidnappings, because who doesn't love a big supernatural revealed story, but I realized it was growing too big and decided to cut it off there instead. I imagine Fiona and Sam did some nice catching-up and resolved some unsaid things. 
> 
> Thank you for reading and I hope you'll keep around when I start posting my next story :)


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